A   POOR  WISE    MAN 


44G578 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  city  turned  its  dreariest  aspect  toward  the  railway 
station;  blackened  walls,  irregular  and  ill-paved  streets, 
gloomy  warehouses,  and  over  all  a  gray,  smoke-laden  atmos 
phere  which  gave  it  mystery  and  often  beauty.  Sometimes 
the  softened  towers  of  the  great  steel  bridges  rose  above  the 
river  mist  like  fairy  towers  suspended  between  Heaven  and 
earth.  And  again  the  sun  tipped  the  surrounding  hills  with 
gold,  while  the  city  lay  buried  in  its  smoke  shroud,  and  white 
ghosts  of  river  boats  moved  spectrally  along. 

Sometimes  it  was  ugly,  sometimes  beautiful,  but  always 
the  city  was  powerful,  significant,  important.  It  was  a  vast 
melting  pot.  Through  its  gates  came  alike  the  hopeful  and 
the  hopeless,  the  dreamers  and  those  who  would  destroy  those 
dreams.  From  all  over  the  world  there  came  men  who  sought 
a  chance  to  labor.  They  came  in  groups,  anxious  and  dumb, 
carrying  with  them  their  pathetic  bundles,  and  shepherded  by 
men  with  cunning  eyes. 

Raw  material,  for  the  crucible  of  the  city,  as  potentially 
powerful  as  the  iron  ore  which  entered  the  city  by  the  same 
gate. 

The  city  took  them  in,  gave  them  sanctuary,  and  forgot 
them.  But  the  shepherds  with  the  cunning  eyes  remembered. 

Lily  Cardew,  standing  in  the  train  shed  one  morning  early 
in  March,  watched  such  a  line  go  by.  She  watched  it  with 
interest.  She  had  developed  a  new  interest  in  people  during 

7 


8      •••••      'A'lXM'. WISE  MAN 

the  year  she  had  been  away.  She  had  seen,  in  the  army  camp, 
similar  shuffling  lines  of  men,  transformed  in  a  few  hours 
into  ranks  of  uniformed  soldiers,  beginning  already  to  be  ac 
tuated  by  the  same  motive.  These  aliens,  going  by,  would 
become  citizens.  Very  soon  now  they  would  appear  on  the 
streets  in  new  American  clothes  of  extraordinary  cut  and 
color,  their  hair  cut  with  clippers  almost  to  the  crown,  and 
surmounted  by  derby  hats  always  a  size  too  small. 

Lily  smiled,  and  looked  out  for  her  mother.  She  was  sud 
denly  unaccountably  glad  to  be  back  again.  She  liked  the 
smoke  and  the  noise,  the  movement,  the  sense  of  things  do 
ing.  And  the  sight  of  her  mother,  small,  faultlessly  tailored, 
wearing  a  great  bunch  of  violets,  and  incongruous  in  that 
work-a-day  atmosphere,  set  her  smiling  again. 

How  familiar  it  all  was!  And  heavens,  how  young  she 
looked !  The  limousine  was  at  the  curb,  and  a  footman  as  im 
maculately  turned  out  as  her  mother  stood  with  a  folded  rug 
over  his  arm.  On  the  seat  inside  lay  a  purple  box.  Lily  had 
known  it  would  be  there.  They  would  be  ostensibly  from  her 
father,  because  he  had  not  been  able  to  meet  her,  but  she 
knew  quite  well  that  Grace  Cardew  had  stopped  at  the  flor 
ist's  on  her  way  downtown  and  bought  them. 

A  little  surge  of  affection  for  her  mother  warmed  the  girl's 
eyes.  The  small  attentions  which  in  the  Cardew  household 
took  the  place  of  loving  demonstrations  had  always  touched 
her.  As  a  family  the  Cardews  were  rather  loosely  knitted 
together,  but  there  was  something  very  lovable  about  her 
mother. 

Grace  Cardew  kissed  her,  and  then  held  her  off  and  looked 
at  her. 

"Mercy,  Lily!"  she  said,  "you  look  as  old  as  I  do." 

"Older,  I  hope,"  Lily  retorted.  "What  a  marvel  you  are, 
Grace  dear."  Now  and  then  she  called  her  mother  "Grace." 
It  was  by  way  of  being  a  small  joke  between  them,  but  b ra 
ited  to  their  moments  alone.  Once  old  Anthony,  her  grand 
father,  had  overheard  her,  and  there  had  been  rather  a  row 
about  it. 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 


"I  feel  horribly  old,  but  I  didn't  think  I  looked  it." 

They  got  into  the  car  and  Grace  held  out  the  box  to  her. 
"From  your  father,  dear.  He  wanted  so  to  come,  but  things 
are  dreadful  at  the  mill.  I  suppose  you've  seen  the  papers." 

Lily  opened  the  box,  and  smiled  at  her  mother. 

"Yes,  I  know.  But  why  the  subterfuge  about  the  flowers, 
mother  dear?  Honestly,  did  he  send  them,  or  did  you  get 
them?  But  never  mind  about  that;  I  know  he's  worried,  and 
you're  sweet  to  do  it.  Have  you  broken  the  news  to  grand 
father  that  the  last  of  the  Cardews  is  coming  home?" 

"He  sent  you  all  sorts  of  messages,  and  he'll  see  you  at  din 
ner." 

Lily  laughed  out  at  that. 

"You  darling !"  she  said.  "You  know  perfectly  well  that  I 
am  nothing  in  grandfather's  young  life,  but  the  Cardew 
women  all  have  what  he  likes  to  call  savoir  faire.  What 
would  they  do,  father  and  grandfather,  if  you  didn't  go 
through  life  smoothing  things  for  them?" 

Grace  looked  rather  stiffly  ahead.  This  young  daughter 
of  hers,  with  her  directness  and  her  smiling  ignoring  of  the 
small  subterfuges  of  life,  rather  frightened  her.  The  terrible 
honesty  of  youth !  All  these  years  of  ironing  the  wrinkles  out 
of  life,  of  smoothing  the  difficulties  between  old  Anthony  and 
Howard,  and  now  a  third  generation  to  contend  with.  A  pit 
ilessly  frank  and  unconsciously  cruel  generation.  She  turned 
and  eyed  Lily  uneasily. 

"You  look  tired,"  she  said,  "and  you  need  attention.  I 
wish  you  had  let  me  send  Castle  to  you." 

But  she  thought  that  Lily  was  even  lovelier  than  she  had 
remembered  her.  Lovely  rather  than  beautiful,  perhaps.  Her 
face  was  less  childish  than  when  she  had  gone  away;  there 
was,  in  certain  of  her  expressions,  an  almost  alarming  matur 
ity.  But  perhaps  that  was  fatigue. 

"I  couldn't  have  had  Castle,  mother.  I  didn't  need  any 
thing-.  I've  been  very  happy,  really,  and  very  busy." 

"You  have  been  very  vague  lately  about  your  work." 

Lily  faced  her  mother  squarely. 


io  A  POOR  WISE  MAN 


"I  didn't  think  you'd  much  like  having  me  do  it,  and  I 
thought  it  would  drive  grandfather  crazy." 

"I  thought  you  were  in  a  canteen." 

"Not  lately.  I've  been  looking  after  girls  who  had  followed 
soldiers  to  camps.  Some  of  them  were  going  to  have  babies, 
too.  It  was  rather  awful.  We  married  quite  a  lot  of  them, 
however." 

The  curious  reserve  that  so  often  exists  between  mother 
and  daughter  held  Grace  Cardew  dumb.  She  nodded,  but 
her  eyes  had  slightly  hardened.  So  this  was  what  war  had 
done  to  her.  She  had  had  no  son,  and  had  thanked  God  for 
it  during  the  war,  although  old  Anthony  had  hated  her  all  her 
married  life  for  it.  But  she  had  given  her  daughter,  her  clear- 
eyed  daughter,  and  they  had  shown  her  the  dregs  of  life. 

Her  thoughts  went  back  over  the  years.  To  Lily  as  a  child, 
with  Mademoiselle  always  at  her  elbow,  and  life  painted  as 
a  thing  of  beauty.  Love,  marriage  and  birth  were  divine  ac 
cidents.  Death  was  a  quiet  sleep,  with  heaven  just  beyond, 
a  sleep  which  came  only  to  age,  which  had  wearied  and  would 
rest.  Then  she  remembered  the  day  when  Elinor  Cardew, 
poor  uphappy  Elinor,  had  fled  back  to  Anthony's  roof  to  have 
a  baby,  and  after  a  few  rapturous  weeks  for  Lily  the  baby 
had  died. 

"But  the  baby  isn't  old,"  Lily  had  persisted,  standing  in  front 
of  her  mother  with  angry,  accusing  eyes. 

Grace  was  not  an  imaginative  woman,  but  she  turned  it 
rather  neatly,  as  she  told  Howard  later. 

"It  was  such  a  nice  baby,"  she  said,  feeling  for  an  idea. 
"I  think  probably  God  was  lonely  without  it,  and  sent  an 
angel  for  it  again." 

"But  it  is  still  upstairs,"  Lily  had  insisted.  She  had  had 
a  curious  instinct  for  truth,  even  then.  But  there  Grace's  im 
agination  had  failed  her,  and  she  sent  for  Mademoiselle. 
Mademoiselle  was  a  good  Catholic,  and  very  clear  in  her 
own  mind,  but  what  she  left  in  Lily's  brain  was  a  confused 
conviction  that  every  person  was  two  persons,  a  body  and  a 
soul.  Death  was  simply  a  split-up,  then.  One  part  of  you, 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN ir 

the  part  that  bathed  every  morning  and  had  its  toe-nails  cut, 
and  went  to  dancing  school  in  a  white  frock  and  thin  black  silk 
stockings  and  carriage  boots  over  pumps,  that  part  was  bur 
ied  and  would  only  come  up  again  at  the  Resurrection.  But 
the  other  part  was  all  the  time  very  happy,  and  mostly  sing 
ing. 

Lily  did  not  like  to  sing. 

Then  there  was  the  matter  of  tears.  People  only  cried  when 
they  hurt  themselves.  She  had  been  told  that  again  and  again 
when  she  threatened  tears  over  her  music  lesson.  But  when 
Aunt  Elinor  had  gone  away  she  had  found  Mademoiselle,  the 
deadly  antagonist  of  tears,  weeping.  And  here  again  Grace 
remembered  the  child's  wide,  insistent  eyes. 

"Why?" 

"She  is  sorry  for  Aunt  Elinor." 

"Because  her  baby's  gone  to  God?  She  ought  to  be  glad, 
oughtn't  she?" 

"Not  that,"  said  Grace,  and  had  brought  a  box  of  choco 
lates  and  given  her  one,  although  they  were  not  permitted  save 
one  after  each  meal. 

Then  Lily  had  gone  away  to  school.  How  carefully  the 
school  had  been  selected!  When  she  came  back,  however, 
there  had  been  no  more  questions,  and  Grace  had  sighed  with 
relief.  That  bad  time  was  over,  anyhow.  But  Lily  was  rather 
difficult  those  days.  She  seemed,  in  some  vague  way,  resent 
ful.  Her  mother  found  her,  now  and  then,  in  a  frowning, 
half-defiant  mood.  And  once,  when  Mademoiselle  had  ven 
tured  some  jesting  remark  about  young  Alston  Denslow,  she 
was  stupefied  to  see  the  girl  march  out  of  the  room,  her  chin 
high,  not  to  be  seen  again  for  hours. 

Grace's  mind  was  sub-consciously  remembering  those  things 
even  when  she  spoke. 

"I  didn't  know  you  were  having  to  learn  about  that  side 
of  life,"  she  said,  after  a  brief  silence. 

"That  side  of  life  is  life,  mother,"  Lily  said  gravely. 

But  Grace  did  not  reply  to  that.  It  was  characteristic  0-f 
her  to  follow  her  own  line  of  thought. 


12 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  tell  your  grandfather.  You  know 
he  feels  strongly  about  some  things.  And  he  hasn't  forgiven 
me  yet  for  letting  you  go." 

Rather  diffidently  Lily  put  her  hand  on  her  mother's.  She 
gave  her  rare  caresses  shyly,  with  averted  eyes,  and  she  was 
always  more  diffident  with  her  mother  than  with  her  father. 
Such  spontaneous  bursts  of  affection  as  she  sometimes  showed 
had  been  lavished  on  Mademoiselle.  It  was  Mademoiselle 
she  had  hugged  rapturously  on  her  small  feast  days,  Made 
moiselle  who  never  demanded  affection,  and  so  received  it. 

"Poor  mother!"  she  said,  "I  have  made  it  hard  for  you, 
haven't  I?  Is  he  as  bad  as  ever?" 

She  had  not  pinned  on  the  violets,  but  sat  holding  them  in 
her  hands,  now  and  then  taking  a  luxurious  sniff.  She  did 
not  seem  to  expect  a  reply.  Between  Grace  and  herself  it 
was  quite  understood  that  old  Anthony  Cardew  was  always 
as  bad  as  could  be. 

"There  is  some  sort  of  trouble  at  the  mill.  Your  father  is 
worried." 

And  this  time  it  was  Lily  who  did  not  reply.  She  said,  in 
consequentially  : 

"We're  saved,  and  it's  all  over.  But  sometimes  I  wonder 
if  we  were  worth  saving.  It  all  seems  such  a  mess,  doesn't 
it?"  She  glanced  out.  They  were  drawing  up  before  the 
house,  and  she  looked  at  her  mother  whimsically. 

"The  last  of  the  Cardews  returning  from  the  wars!"  she 
said.  "Only  she  is  unfortunately  a  she,  and  she  hasn't  been 
any  nearer  the  war  than  the  State  of  Ohio." 

Her  voice  was  gay  enough,  but  she  had  a  quick  vision  of 
the  grim  old  house  had  she  been  the  son  they  had  wanted  to 
carry  on  the  name,  returning  from  France. 

The  Cardews  had  fighting  traditions.  They  had  fought  in 
every  war  from  the  Revolution  on.  There  had  been  a  Car- 
dew  in  Mexico  in  '48,  and  in  that  upper  suite  of  rooms  to 
which  her  grandfather  had  retired  in  wrath  on  his  son's  mar 
riage,  she  remembered  her  sense  of  awe  as  a  child  on 
seeing  on  the  wall  the  sword  he  had  worn  in  the  Civil  War, 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 


He  was  a  small  man,  and  the  scabbard  was  badly  worn  at 
the  end,  mute  testimony  to  the  long  forced  marches  of  his 
youth.  Her  father  had  gone  to  Cuba  in  '98,  and  had  almost 
died  of  typhoid  fever  there,  contracted  in  the  marshes  of 
Florida. 

Yes,  they  had  been  a  fighting  family.    And  now  - 

Her  mother  was  determinedly  gay.  There  were  flowers  in 
the  dark  old  hall,  and  Grayson,  the  butler,  evidently  waiting 
inside  the  door,  greeted  her  with  the  familiarity  of  the  old 
servant  who  had  slipped  her  sweets  from  the  pantry  after 
dinner  parties  in  her  little-girl  years. 

"Welcome  home,  Miss  Lily,"  he  said. 

Mademoiselle  was  lurking  on  the  stairway,  in  a  new  lace 
collar  over  her  old  black  dress.  Lily  recognized  in  the  collar 
a  great  occasion,  for  Mademoiselle  was  French  and  thrifty. 
Suddenly  a  wave  of  warmth  and  gladness  flooded  her.  This 
was  home.  Dear,  familiar  home.  She  had  come  back.  She 
was  the  only  young  thing  in  the  house.  She  would  bring 
them  gladness  and  youth.  She  would  try  to  make  them  happy. 
Always  before  she  had  taken,  but  now  she  meant  to  give. 

Not  that  she  formulated  such  a  thought.  It  was  an  emotion, 
rather.  She  ran  up  the  stairs  and  hugged  Mademoiselle  wildly. 

"You  darling  old  thing!"  she  cried.  She  lapsed  into 
French.  "I  saw  the  collar  at  once.  And  think,  it  is  over  !  It 
is  finished.  And  all  your  nice  French  relatives  are  sitting  on 
the  boulevards  in  the  sun,  and  sipping  their  little  glasses  of 
wine,  and  rising  and  bowing  when  a  pretty  girl  passes.  Is  it 
not  so?" 

"It  is  so,  God  and  the  saints  be  praised  !"  said  Mademoi 
selle,  huskily. 

,  Grace  Cardew  followed  them  up  the  staircase.  Her  French 
was  negligible,  and  she  felt  again,  as  in  days  gone  by,  shut 
out  from  the  little  world  of  two  which  held  her  daughter  and 
the  governess.  Old  Anthony's  doing,  that.  He  had  never 
forgiven  his  son  his  plebeian  marriage,  and  an  early  conver 
sation  returned  to  her.  It  was  on  Lily's  first  birthday  and 


14 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

he  had  made  one  of  his  rare  visits  to  the  nursery.  He  had 
brought  with  him  a  pearl  in  a  velvet  case. 

"All  our  women  have  their  own  pearls,"  he  had  said.  "She 
will  have  her  grandmother's  also  when  she  marries.  I  shall 
give  her  one  the  first  year,  two  the  second,  and  so  on."  He 
had  stood  looking  down  at  the  child  critically.  "She's  a  Car- 
dew,"  he  said  at  last.  "Which  means  that  she  will  be  obsti 
nate  and  self-willed."  He  had  paused  there,  but  Grace  had 
not  refuted  the  statement.  He  had  grinned.  "As  you  know," 
he  added.  "Is  she  talking  yet?" 

"A  word  or  two,"  Grace  had  said,  with  no  more  warmth 
in  her  tone  than  was  in  his. 

"Very  well.  Get  her  a  French  governess.  She  ought  to 
speak  French  before  she  does  English.  It  is  one  of  the  ac 
complishments  of  a  lady.  Get  a  good  woman,  and  for  heaven's 
sake  arrange  to  serve  her  breakfast  in  her  room.  I  don't  want 
to  have  to  be  pleasant  to  any  chattering  French  woman  at 
eight  in  the  morning." 

"No,  you  wouldn't,"  Grace  had  said. 

Anthony  had  stamped  out,  but  in  the  hall  he  smiled  grimly. 
He  did  not  like  Howard's  wife,  but  she  was  not  afraid  of  him. 
He  respected  her  for  that.  He  took  good  care  to  see  that 
the  Frenchwoman  was  found,  and  at  dinner,  the  only  meal 
he  took  with  the  family,  he  would  now  and  then  send  for 
the  governess  and  Lily  to  come  in  for  dessert.  That,  of 
course,  was  later  on,  when  the  child  was  nearly  ten.  Then 
would  follow  a  three-cornered  conversation  in  rapid  French, 
Howard  and  Anthony  and  Lily,  with  Mademoiselle  joining  in 
timidly,  and  with  Grace,  at  the  side  of  the  table,  pretending 
to  eat  and  feeling  cut  off,  in  a  middle-class  world  of  her 
own,  at  the  side  of  the  table.  Anthony  Cardew  had  retained 
the  head  of  his  table,  and  he  had  never  asked  her  to  take  his 
dead  wife's  place. 

After  a  time  Grace  realized  the  consummate  cruelty  of 
those  hours,  the  fact  that  Lily  was  sent  for,  not  only  because 
the  old  man  cared  to  see  her,  but  to  make  Grace  feel  the  out 
sider  that  she  was.  She  made  desperate  efforts  to  conquer 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 15 

the  hated  language,  but  her  accent  was  atrocious.  Anthony 
would  correct  her  suavely,  and  Lily  would  laugh  in  childish, 
unthinking  mirth.  She  gave  it  up  at  last. 

She  never  told  Howard  about  it.  He  had  his  own  difficulties 
with  his  father,  and  she  would  not  add  to  them.  She  man 
aged  the  house,  checked  over  the  bills  and  sent  them  to  the 
office,  put  up  a  cheerful  and  courageous  front,  and  after  a 
time  sheathed  herself  in  an  armor  of  smiling  indifference. 
But  she  thanked  heaven  when  the  time  came  to  send  Lily  away 
to  school  The  effort  of  concealing  the  armed  neutrality 
between  Anthony  and  herself  was  growing  more  wearing. 
The  girl  was  observant.  And  Anthony  had  been  right,  she 
was  a  Cardew.  She  would  have  fought  her  grandfather  out 
on  it,  defied  him,  accused  him,  hated  him.  And  Grace  wanted 
peace. 

Once  again  as  she  followed  Lily  and  Mademoiselle  up  the 
stairs  she  felt  the  barrier  of  language,  and  back  of  it  the  Car- 
dew  pride  and  traditions  that  somehow  cut  her  off. 

But  in  Lily's  rooms  she  was  her  sane  and  cheerful  self 
again.  Inside  the  doorway  the  girl  was  standing,  her  eyes 
traveling  over  her  little  domain  ecstatically. 

"How  lovely  of  you  not  to  change  a  thing,  mother!"  she 
said.  "I  was  so  afraid — I  know  how  you  hate  my  stuff. 
But  I  might  have  known  you  wouldn't.  All  the  time  I've 
been  away,  sleeping  in  a  dormitory,  and  taking  turns  at  the 
bath,  I  have  thought  of  my  own  little  place."  She  wandered 
around,  touching  her  familiar  possessions  with  caressing 
hands.  "I've  a  good  notion,"  she  declared,  "to  go  to  bed  im 
mediately,  just  for  the  pleasure  of  lying  in  linen  sheets  again." 
Suddenly  she  turned  to  her  mother.  "I'm  afraid  you'll  find 
I've  made  some  queer  friends,  mother." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  'queer*  ?" 

"People  no  proper  Cardew  would  care  to  know."  She 
smiled.  "Where's  Ellen?  I  want  to  tell  her  I  met  somebody 
she  knows  out  there,  the  nicest  sort  of  a  boy."  She  went  to 
the  doorway  and  called  lustily:  "Ellen!  Ellen!"  The  rus- 


TO  A  POOR  WISE  MAN 


tling  of  starche^   ct-;rf 
ridor. 

"I  wish  you  TV 
"You  know  how  } 

"What  we  need 
little  more  calling. 

fitting  the  family  di^  n  put  co 

in,  Ellen.    Ellen,  do  you  know  that  I  met  Willy  Cameron  in 
the  camp?" 

"Willy!"  squealed  Ellen.  "You  met  Willy?  Isn't  he  a 
fine  boy,  Miss  Lily?" 

"He's  wonderful,"  said  Lily.  "I  went  to  the  movies  with 
him  every  Friday  night."  She  turned  to  her  mother.  "You 
would  like  him,  mother.  He  couldn't  get  into  the  army.  He 
is  a  little  bit  lame.  And  —  —  "  she  surveyed  Grace  with  amused 
eyes,  "you  needn't  think  what  you  are  thinking.  He  is  tall 
and  thin  and  not  at  all  good-looking.  Is  he,  Ellen?" 

"He  is  a  very  fine  young  man/'  Ellen  said  rather  stiffly. 
"He's  very  highly  thought  of  in  the  town  I  come  from.  His 
father  was  a  doctor,  and  his  buggy  used  to  go  around  day« 
and  night.  When  he  found  they  wouldn't  take  him  as  a  sol 
dier  he  was  like  to  break  his  heart." 

"Lame  ?"  Grace  repeated,  ignoring  Ellen. 

"Just  a  little.  You  forget  all  about  it  when  you  know  him* 
Don't  you,  Ellen?" 

But  at  Grace's  tone  Ellen  had  remembered.  She  stiffened, 
and  became  again  a  housemaid  in  the  Anthony  Cardew  house, 
a  self-effacing,  rubber-heeled,  pink-uniformed  lower  servant. 
She  glanced  at  Mrs.  Cardew,  whose  eyebrows  were  slightly 
raised. 

"Thank  you,  miss,"  she  said.  And  went  out,  leaving  Lily 
rather  chilled  and  openly  perplexed. 

"Well  !"  she  said.  Then  she  glanced  at  her  mother.  "I  do 
believe  you  are  a  little  shocked,  mother,  because  Ellen  and  I 
have  a  mutual  friend  in  Mr.  William  Wallace  Cameron  I 
Well,  if  you  want  the  exact  truth,  he  hadn't  an  atom  of  use 
for  me  until  he  heard  about  Ellen."  She  put  an  arm  around 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN  17 

ace's    shoulders.      "Brace   up,    dear,"    she   said,    smilingly. 

)on't  you  cry.    I'll  be  a  Cardew  bye-and-bye." 

you  really  go  to  the  moving  pictures  with  him?" 
''  -Y  xed,)  rather  unhappily.  She  had  never  been  inside 
a  m  •  picture -.thj?  hi"  To  her  they  meant  something  a 
j^ep  '  •:<  r  >sai,  cand  a  degree  below  the  burlesque 

housvo.  *  x  keyoweretronstituted  of  bad  air  and  unchaperoned 
young"  women  accompanied  by  youths  who  dangled  cigarettes 
from  a  lower  lip,  all  obviously  of  the  lower  class,  including  the 
cigarette;  and  of  other  women,  sometimes  drab,  dragged  of 
breast  and  carrying  children  who  should  have  been  in  bed 
hours  before ;  or  still  others,  wandering  in  pairs,  young,  painted 
and  predatory.  She  was  not  imaginative,  or  she  could  not  have 
lived  so  long  in  Anthony  Cardew's  house.  She  never  saw,  in 
the  long  line  waiting  outside  even  the  meanest  of  the  lit 
tle  theaters  that  had  invaded  the  once  sacred  vicinity  of  the 
Cardew  house,  the  cry  of  every  human  heart  for  escape  from 
the  sordid,  the  lure  of  romance,  the  carl  of  adventure  and 
the  open  road. 

"I  can't  believe  it,"  she  added. 

Lily  made  a  little  gesture  of  half-amused  despair. 

"Dearest,"  she  said,  "I  did.  And  I  liked  it.  Mother,  things 
have  changed  a  lot  in  twenty  years.  Sometimes  I  think  that 
here,  in  this  house,  you  don't  realize  that — "  she  struggled 
for  a  phrase — "that  things  have  changed,"  she  ended,  lame 
ly.  "The  social  order,  and  that  sort  of  thing.  You  know. 
Caste."  She  hesitated.  She  was  young  and  inarticulate,  and 
when  she  saw  Grace's  face,  somewhat  frightened.  But  she 
was  not  old  Anthony's  granddaughter  for  nothing.  "This 
idea  of  being  a  Cardew,"  she  went  on,  "that's  ridiculous,  you 
know.  I'm  only  half  Cardew,  anyhow.  The  rest  is  you,  dear, 
and  it's  got  being  a  Cardew  beaten  by  quite  a  lot." 

Mademoiselle  was  deftly  opening  the  girl's  dressing  case, 
but  she  paused  now  and  turned.  It  was  to  Grace  that  she 
spoke,  however. 

"TKey  come  home  like  that,  all  of  them,"  she  said.     "In 


i8 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

France  also.     But  in  time  they  see  the  wisdom  o 
order,  and  return.    It  is  one  of  the  fruits  of  war." 

Grace  hardly  heard  her. 

"Lily,"  she  asked,   "you  are  not  in  love  with  tM 
eron  person,  are  you  ?" 

But  Lily's  easy  laugh  reassured  her. 

"No,  indeed,"  she  said.  "I  am  not.  I  shall  probal 
beneath  me,  as  you  would  call  it,  but  not  William 
Cameron.  For  one  thing,  he  wouldn't  have  granc 
his  family." 

Some  time  later  Mademoiselle  tapped  at  Grace's 
entered.     Grace   was    reclining   on    a   chaise    longu 
tucked  about  her  neck  and  over  her  pillows,  whi 
her  elderly  English  maid,  was  applying  ice  in  a  sof 
her  face.  Grace  sat  up.  The  towel,  pinned  around  her  hair  like 
a  coif,  gave  a  placid,  almost  nun-like  appearance  to  her  still 
lovely  face. 

"Well  ?"  she  demanded.     "Go  out  for  a  minute,  Castle." 

Mademoiselle  waited  until  the  maid  had  gone. 

"I  have  spoken  to  Ellen,"  she  said,  her  voice  cautious.  "A 
young  man  who  does  not  care  for  women,  a  clerk  in  a  country 
pharmacy.  What  is  that,  Mrs.  Cardew?" 

"It  would  be  so  dreadful,  Mademoiselle.     Her  grandfather 

j» 

"But  not  handsome,"  insisted  Mademoiselle,  "and  lame! 
Also,  I  know  the  child.  She  is  not  in  love.  When  that  comes 
to  her  we  shall  know  it." 

Grace  lay  back,  relieved,  but  not  entirely  comforted. 

"She  is  changed,  isn't  she,  Mademoiselle?" 

Mademoiselle  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"A  phase,"  she  said.  She  had  got  the  word  from  old  An 
thony,  who  regarded  any  mental  attitude  that  did  not  con 
form  with  his  own  as  a  condition  that  would  pass.  "A  phase, 
only.  Now  that  she  is  back  among  familiar  things,  she  will 
become  again  a  daughter  of  the  house." 

"Then  you  think  this  talk  about  marryi 

"She  'as  had  liberty,"  said  Mademois 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN  19 

lost  an  aspirate.  "It  is  like  wine  to  the  young.  It  intoxicates. 
But  it,  too,  passes.  In  my  country " 

But  Grace  had,  for  a  number  of  years,  heard  a  great  deal 
of  Mademoiselle's  country.  She  settled  herself  on  her  pil 
lows. 

"Call  Castle,  please,"  she  said,  "And — do  warn  her  not 
to  voice  those  ideas  of  hers  to  her  grandfather.  In  a  coun 
try  pharmacy,  you  say?" 

"And  lame,  and  not  fond  of  women/'  corroborated  Mad 
emoiselle.  ffCa  ne  pourrait  pas  etre  mieux,  riest-ce  pas?" 


CHAPTER  II 

SHORTLY  after  the  Civil  War  Anthony  Cardew  had  left 
Pittsburgh  and  spent  a  year  in  finding  a  location  for 
the  investment  of  his  small  capital.  That  was  in  the  very 
beginning  of  the  epoch  of  steel.  The  iron  business  had  al 
ready  laid  the  foundations  of  its  future  greatness,  but  steel 
was  still  in  its  infancy. 

Anthony's  father  had  been  an  iron-master  in  a  small  way, 
with  a  monthly  pay-roll  of  a  few  hundred  dollars,  and  an 
abiding  faith  in  the  future  of  iron.  But  he  had  never  dreamed 
of  steel.  But  "sixty-five"  saw  the  first  steel  rail  rolled  in 
America,  and  Anthony  Cardew  began  to  dream.  He  went  to 
Chicago  first,  and  from  there  to  Michigan,  to  see  the  first 
successful  Bessemer  converter.  When  he  started  east  again 
he  knew  what  he  was  to  make  his  life  work. 

He  was  very  young  and  his  capital  was  small.  But  he  had 
an  abiding  faith  in  the  new  industry.  Not  that  he  dreamed 
then  of  floating  steel  battleships.  But  he  did  foresee  steel  in 
new  and  various  uses.  Later  on  he  was  experimenting  with 
steel  cable  at  the  very  time  Roebling  made  it  a  commercial 
possibility,  and  with  it  the  modern  suspension  bridge  and  the 
elevator.  He  never  quite  forgave  Roebling.  That  failure 
of  his,  the  difference  only  of  a  month  or  so,  was  one  of  the 
few  disappointments  of  his  prosperous,  self-centered,  orderly 
life.  That,  and  Howard's  marriage.  And,  at  the  height  of 
his  prosperity,  the  realization  that  Howard's  middle-class  wife 
would  never  bear  a  son. 

The  city  he  chose  was  a  small  city  then,  yet  it  already 
showed  signs  of  approaching  greatness.  On  the  east  side, 
across  the  river,  he  built  his  first  plant,  a  small  one,  with  the 
blast  heated  by  passing  through  cast  iron  pipes,  with  the  fur- 
naceman  testing  the  temperature  with  strips  of  lead  and  zinc, 
and  the  skip  hoist  a  patient  mule. 

20 


/ 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 21 

He  had  ore  within  easy  hauling  distance,  and  he  had  fuel, 
and  he  had,  as  time  went  on,  a  rapidly  increasing  market.  La 
bor  was  cheap  anc1  plentiful,  too,  and  being  American-born, 
was  willing  and  intelligent.  Perhaps  Anthony  Cardew's  sins 
of  later  years  were  due  to  a  vast  impatience  that  the  labor 
of  the  early  seventies  was  no  longer  to  be  had. 

The  Cardew  fortune  began  in  the  seventies.  Up  to  that 
time  there  was  a  struggle,  but  in  the  seventies  Anthony  did 
two  things.  He  went  to  England  to  see  the  furnaces  there, 
and  brought  home  a  wife,  £  timid,  tall  Englishwoman  of  ir 
reproachable  birth,  who  remained  always  an  alien  in  the  crude, 
busy  new  city.  And  he  built  himself  a  house,  a  brick  house 
in  lower  East  Avenue,  a  house  rather  like  his  tall,  quiet  wife, 
and  run  on  English  lines.  He  soon  became  the  leading  citi 
zen.  He  was  one  of  the  committee  to  welcome  the  Prince 
of  Wales  to  the  city,  and  from  the  very  beginning  he  took 
his  place  in  the  social  life. 

He  found  it  very  raw  at  times,  crude  and  new.  He  him 
self  lived  with  dignity  and  elegant  simplicity.  He  gave  now 
and  then  lengthy,  ponderous  dinners,  making  out  the  lists  him 
self,  and  handing  them  over  to  his  timid  English  wife  in  much 
the  manner  in  which  he  gave  the  wine  list  and  the  key  to  the 
wine  cellar  to  the  butler.  And,  at  the  head  of  his  table,  he  let 
other  men  talk  and  listened.  They  talked,  those  industrial 
pioneers,  especially  after  the  women  had  gone.  They  saw 
the  city  the  center  of  great  business  and  great  railroads.  They 
talked  of  its  coal,  its  river,  and  the  great  oil  fields  not  far 
away  which  were  then  in  their  infancy.  All  of  them  dreamed 
a  dream,  saw  a  vision.  But  not  all  of  them  lived  to  see  their 
dream  come  true. 

Old  Anthony  lived  to  see  it. 

In  the  late  eighties,  his  wife  having  been  by  that  time  deco 
rously  interred  in  one  of  the  first  great  mausoleums  west  of 
the  mountains,  Anthony  Cardew  found  himself  already 
wealthy.  He  owned  oil  wells  and  coal  mines.  His  mines  sup 
plied  his  coke  ovens  with  coal,  and  his  own  river  boats,  as  well 
as  railroads  in  which  he  was  a  director,  carried  his  steel. 


-\ 


22 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

He  labored  ably  and  well,  and  not  for  wealth  alone.  Ke 
was  one  of  a  group  of  big-visioned  men  who  saw  that  a  na 
tion  was  only  as  great  as  its  industries.  It  was  only  in  his 
later  years  that  he  loved  power  for  the  sake  of  power,  and 
when,  having  outlived  his  generation,  he  had  developed  a 
rigidity  of  mind  that  made  him  view  the  forced  compromises 
of  the  new  regime  as  pusillanimous. 

He  considered  his  son  Howard's  quiet  strength  weakness, 

"You  have  no  stamina,"  he  would  say.  "You  have  no  moral 
fiber.  For  God's  sake,  make  a  stand,  you  fellows,  and  stick 
to  it." 

He  had  not  mellowed  with  age.  He  viewed  with  endless 
bitterness  the  passing  of  his  own  day  and  generation,  and  the 
rise  to  power  of  younger  men;  with  their  "shilly-shallying," 
he  would  say.  He  was  an  aristocrat,  an  autocrat,  and  a  sur 
vival.  He  tied  Howard's  hands  in  the  management  of  the 
now  vast  mills,  and  then  blamed  him  for  the  results. 

But  he  had  been  a  great  man. 

He  had  had  two  children,  a  boy  and  a  girl.  The  girl  had 
been  the  tragedy  of  his  middle  years,  and  Howard  had  been 
his  hope. 

On  the  heights  outside  the  city  and  overlooking  the  river 
he  owned  a  farm,  and  now  and  then,  on  Sunday  afternoons, 
in  the  eighties,  he  drove  out  there,  with  Howard  "sitting  beside 
him,  a  rangy  boy  in  his  teens,  in  the  victoria  which  Anthony 
considered  the  proper  vehicle  for  Sunday  afternoons.  The 
farmhouse  was  in  a  hollow,  but  always  on  those  excursions 
Anthony,  fastidiously  dressed,  picking  his  way  half-irritably 
through  briars  and  cornfields,  would  go  to  the  edge  of  the 
cliffs  and  stand  there,  looking  down.  Below  was  the  muddy 
river,  sluggish  always,  but  a  thing  of  terror  in  spring  freshets. 
And  across  was  the  east  side,  already  a  sordid  place,  its  steel 
mills  belching  black  smoke  that  killed  the  green  of  the  hill 
sides,  its  furnaces  dwarfed  by  distance  and  height,  its  rows  of 
unpainted  wooden  structures  which  housed  the  mill  laborers. 

Howard  would  go  with  him,  but  Howard  dreamed  no 
dreams.  He  was  a  sturdy,  dependable,  unimaginative  boy. 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN  23 

watching  the  squirrels  or  flinging  stones  over  the  palisades. 
Life  for  Howard  was  already  a  thing  determined.  He  would 
go  to  college,  and  then  he  would  come  back  and  go  into  the 
mill  offices.  In  time,  he  would  take  his  father's  place.  He 
meant  to  do  it  well  and  honestly.  He  had  but  to  follow. 
Anthony  had  broken  the  trail,  only  by  that  time  it  was  no 
longer  a  trail,  but  a  broad  and  easy  way. 

Only  once  or  twice  did  Anthony  Cardew  give  voice  to  his 
dreams.  Once  he  said:  "I'll  build  a  house  out  here  some  of 
these  days.  Good  location.  Growth  of  the  city  is  bound  to 
be  in  this  direction." 

What  he  did  not  say  was  that  to  be  there,  on  that  hill,  over 
looking  his  activities,  his  very  own,  the  things  he  had  builded 
with  such  labor,  gave  him  a  sense  of  power.  "This  below," 
he  felt,  with  more  of  pride  than  arrogance,  "this  is  mine.  I 
have  done  it.  I,  Anthony  Cardew." 

He  felt,  looking  down,  the  pride  of  an  artist  in  his  picture, 
of  a  sculptor  who,  secure  from  curious  eyes,  draws  the  sheet 
from  the  still  moist  clay  of  his  modeling,  and  now  from  this 
angle,  now  from  that,  studies,  criticizes,  and  exults. 

But  Anthony  Cardew  never  built  his  house  on  the  cliff. 
Time  was  to  come  when  great  houses  stood  there,  like  vast 
forts,  overlooking,  almost  menacing,  the  valley  beneath.  For, 
until  the  nineties,  although  the  city  distended  in  all  directions, 
huge,  ugly,  powerful,  infinitely  rich,  and  while  in  the  direc 
tion  of  Anthony's  farm  the  growth  was  real  and  rapid,  it  was 
the  plain  people  who  lined  its  rapidly  extending  avenues  with 
their  two-story  brick  houses;  little  homes  of  infinite  tender 
ness  and  quiet,  along  tree-lined  streets,  where  the  children 
played  on  the  cobble-stones,  and  at  night  the  horse  cars,  and 
later  the  cable  system,  brought  home  tired  clerks  and  store 
keepers  tto  small  havens,  already  growing  dingy  from  the 
smoke  of  the  distant  mills. 

Anthony  Cardew  did  not  like  the  plain  people.  Yet  in  the 
end,  it  was  the  plain  people,  those  who  neither  labored  with 
their  hands  nor  lived  by  the  labor  of  others — it  was  the  plain 
people  who  vanquished  him.  Vanquished  him  and  tried  to 


24  A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

protect  him.  But  could  not.  A  smallish  man,  hard  and  wiry, 
he  neither  saved  himself  nor  saved  others.  He  had  one  fet 
ish,  power.  And  one  pride,  his  line.  The  Cardews  were  iron 
masters.  Howard  would  be  an  iron  master,  and  Howard's 
son. 

But  Howard  never  had  a  son. 


CHAPTER  III 

ALL  through  her  teens  Lily  had  wondered  about  the  mys 
tery  concerning  her  Aunt  Elinor.  There  was  an  oil  por 
trait  of  her  in  the  library,  and  one  of  the  first  things  she  had 
been  taught  was  not  to  speak  of  it. 

Now  and  then,  at  intervals  of  years,  Aunt  Elinor  came  back. 
Her  mother  and  father  would  look  worried,  and  Aunt  Elinor 
herself  would  stay  in  her  rooms,  and  seldom  appeared  at 
meals.  Never  at  dinner.  As  a  child  Lily  used  to  think  she 
had  two  Aunt  Elinors,  one  the  young  girl  in  the  gilt  frame, 
and  the  other  the  quiet,  soft-voiced  person  who  slipped  around 
the  upper  corridors  like  a  ghost. 

But  she  was  not  to  speak  of  either  of  them  to  her  grand 
father. 

Lily  was  not  born  in  the  house  on  lower  East  Avenue. 

In  the  late  eighties  Anthony  built  himself  a  home,  not 
on  the  farm,  but  in  a  new  residence  portion  of  the  city.  The 
old  common,  grazing  ground  of  family  cows,  dump  and  gen 
eral  eye-sore,  had  become  a  park  by  that  time,  still  only  a  po 
tentially  beautiful  thing,  with  the  trees  that  were  to  be  its 
later  glory  only  thin  young  shoots,  and  on  the  streets  that 
faced  it  the  wealthy  of  the  city  built  their  homes,  brick  houses 
of  square  solidity,  flush  with  brick  pavements,  which  were 
carefully  reddened  on  Saturday  mornings.  Beyond  the  pave 
ments  were  cobble-stoned  streets.  Anthony  Cardew  was  the 
first  man  in  the  city  to  have  a  rubber-tired  carriage. 

The  story  of  Anthony  Cardew's  new  home  is  the  story  of 
Elinor's  tragedy.  Nor  did  it  stop  there.  It  carried  on  to  the 
third  generation,  to  Lily  Cardew,  and  in  the  end  it  involved 
the  city  itself.  Because  of  the  ruin  of  one  small  home  all 
homes  were  threatened.  One  small  house,  and  one  undying 
hatred. 

Yet  the  matter  was  small  in  itself.  An  Irishman  named 

25 


26 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

Doyle  owned  the  site  Anthony  coveted.  After  years  of  strug 
gle  his  small  grocery  had  begun  to  put  him  on  his  feet,  and 
now  the  new  development  of  the  neighborhood  added  to  his 
prosperity.  He  was  a  dried-up,  sentimental  little  man,  with 
two  loves,  his  wife's  memory  and  his  wife's  garden,  which 
he  still  tended  religiously  between  customers;  and  one  am 
bition,  his  son.  With  the  change  from  common  to  park,  and 
the  improvement  in  the  neighborhood,  he  began  to  flourish, 
and  he,  too,  like  Anthony,  dreamed  a  dream.  He  would 
make  his  son  a  gentleman,  and  he  would  get  a  shop  assist 
ant  and  a  horse  and  wagon.  Poverty  was  still  his  lot,  but 
there  were  good  times  coming.  He  saved  carefully,  and  sent 
Jim  Doyle  away  to  college. 

He  would  not  sell  to  Anthony.  When  he  said  he  could  not 
sell  his  wife's  garden,  Anthony's  agents  reported  him  either 
mad  or  deeply  scheming.  They  kept  after  him,  offering  much 
more  than  the  land  was  worth.  Doyle  began  by  being  pugna 
cious,  but  in  the  end  he  took  to  brooding. 

"He'll  get  me  yet,"  he  would  mutter,  standing  among  the 
white  phlox  of  his  little  back  garden.  "He'll  get  me.  He 
never  quits." 

Anthony  Cardew  waited  a  year.  Then  he  had  the  frame 
building  condemned  as  unsafe,  and  Doyle  gave  in.  Anthony 
built  his  house.  He  put  a  brick  stable  where  the  garden  had 
been,  and  the  night  watchman  for  the  property  complained 
that  a  little  man,  with  wild  eyes,  often  spent  half  the  night 
standing  across  the  street,  quite  still,  staring  over.  If  An 
thony  gave  Doyle  a  thought,  it  was  that  progress  and  growth 
had  their  inevitable  victims.  But  on  the  first  night  of  An 
thony's  occupancy  of  his  new  house  Doyle  shot  himself  be 
side  the  stable,  where  a  few  stalks  of  white  phlox  had  sur 
vived  the  building  operations. 

It  never  reached  the  newspapers,  nor  did  a  stable-boy's 
story  of  hearing  the  dying  man  curse  Anthony  and  all  his 
works.  But  nevertheless  the  story  of  the  Doyle  curse  on  An 
thony  Cardew  spread.  Anthony  heard  it,  and  forgot  it.  But 
two  days  later  he  was  dragged  from  his  carriage  by  young 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 27 

Jim  Doyle,  returned  for  the  older  Doyle's  funeral,  and  beaten 
insensible  with  the  stick  af  his  own  carriage  whip. 

Young  Doyle  did  not  run  away.  He  stood  by,  a  defiant 
figure  full  of  hatred,  watching  Anthony  on  the  cobbles,  as 
though  he  wanted  to  see  him  revive  and  suffer. 

"I  didn't  do  it  to  revenge  my  father,"  he  said  at  the  trial. 

"He  was  nothing  to  me I  did  it  to  show  old  Cardew  that, 

he  couldn't  get  away  with  it.    I'd  do  it  again,  too." 

Any  sentiment  in  his  favor  died  at  that,  and  he  was  given 
five  years  in  the  penitentiary.  He  was  a  demoralizing  influ 
ence  there,  already  a  socialist  with  anarchical  tendencies,  and 
with  the  gift  of  influencing  men.  A  fluent,  sneering  youth, 
who  lashed  the  guards  to  fury  with  his  unctuous,  diabolical 
tongue. 

The  penitentiary  had  not  been  moved  then.  It  stood  in  the 
park,  a  grim  gray  thing  of  stone.  Elinor  Cardew,  a  lonely 
girl  always,  used  to  stand  in  a  window  of  the  new  house  and 
watch  the  walls.  Inside  there  were  men  who  were  shut  away 
from  all  that  greenery  around  them.  Men  who  could  look  up 
at  the  sky,  or  down  at  the  ground,  but  never  out  and  across, 
as  she  could. 

She  was  always  hoping  some  of  them  would  get  away.  She 
hated  the  sentries,  rifle  on  shoulder,  who  walked  their  mo 
notonous  beats,  back  and  forward,  along  the  top  of  the  wall. 

Anthony's  house  was  square  and  substantial,  with  high  ceil 
ings.  It  was  paneled  with  walnut  and  furnished  in  walnut, 
in  those  days.  Its  tables  and  bureaus  were  of  walnut,  with 
cold  white  marble  tops.  And  in  the  parlor  was  a  square  wal 
nut  piano,  which  Elinor  hated  because  she  had  to  sit  there 
three  hours  each  day,  slipping  on  the  top  of  the  horsehair- 
covered  stool,  to  practice.  In  cold  weather  her  German  gover 
ness  sat  in  the  frigid  room,  with  a  shawl  and  mittens,  wait 
ing  until  the  onyx  clock  on  the  mantel-piece  showed  that  the 
three  hours  were  over. 

Elinor  had  never  heard  the  story  of  old  Michael  Doyle, 
or  of  his  son  Jim.  But  one  night — she  was  seventeen  then, 


28 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

and  Jim  Doyle  had  served  three  years  of  his  sentence — sitting 
at  dinner  with  her  father,  she  said : 

"Some  convicts  escaped  from  the  penitentiary  to-day, 
father." 

"Don't  believe  it,"  said  Anthony  Cardew.  "Nothing  about 
it  in  the  newspapers." 

"Fraulein  saw  the  hole." 

Elinor  had  had  an  Alsatian  governess.  That  was  one  reason 
why  Elinor's  niece  had  a  French  one. 

"Hole  ?    What  do  you  mean  by  hole  ?" 

Elinor  shrank  back  a  little.  She  had  not  minded  dining 
with  her  father  when  Howard  was  at  home,  but  Howard  was 
at  college.  Howard  had  a  way  of  good-naturedly  ignoring 
his  father's  asperities,  but  Elinor  was  a  suppressed,  shy  little 
thing,  romantic,  aloof,  and  filled  with  undesired  affections. 

"She  said  a  hole,"  she  affirmed,  diffidently.  "She  says  they 
dug  a  tunnel  and  got  out.  Last  night." 

"Very  probably,"  said  Anthony  Cardew.  And  he  repeated, 
thoughtfully,  "Very  probably." 

He  did  not  hear  Elinor  when  she  quietly  pushed  back  her 
chair  and  said  "good-night."  He  was  sitting  at  the  table,  tap 
ping  on  the  cloth  with  finger-tips  that  were  slightly  cold. 

That  evening  Anthony  Cardew  had  a  visit  from  the  police, 
and  considerable  fiery  talk  took  place  in  his  library.  As  a 
result  there  was  a  shake-up  in  city  politics,  and  a  change  in 
the  penitentiary  management,  for  Anthony  Cardew  had  a 
heavy  hand  and  a  bitter  memory.  And  a  little  cloud  on  his 
horizon  grew  and  finally  settled  down  over  his  life,  turning  it 
gray.  Jim  Doyle  was  among  those  who  had  escaped. 

For  three  months  Anthony  was  followed  wherever  he  went 
by  detectives,  and  his  house  was  watched  at  night.  But  he 
was  a  brave  man,  and  the  espionage  grew  hateful.  Besides, 
each  day  added  to  his  sense  of  security.  There  came  a  time 
when  he  impatiently  dismissed  the  police,  and  took  up  life 
again  as  before. 

Then  one  day  he  received  a  note,  in  a  plain  white  envelope. 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 29 

It  said:  "There  are  worse  things  than  death."  And  it  was 
signed:  "J.  Doyle." 

Doyle  was  not  recaptured.  Anthony  had  iron  gratings  put 
on  the  lower  windows  of  his  house  after  that,  and  he  hired 
a  special  watchman.  But  nothing  happened,  and  at  last  he 
began  to  forget.  He  was  building  the  new  furnaces  up  the 
river  by  that  time.  The  era  of  structural  steel  for  tall  build 
ings  was  beginning,  and  he  bought  the  rights  of  a  process  for 
making  cement  out  of  his  furnace  slag.  He  was  achieving 
great  wealth,  although  he  did  not  change  his  scale  of  living. 

Now  and  then  Fraulein  braved  the  terrors  of  the  library, 
small  neatly-written  lists  in  her  hands.  Miss  Elinor  needed 
this  or  that.  He  would  check  up  the  lists,  sign  his  name  to 
them,  and  Elinor  and  Fraulein  would  have  a  shopping  excur 
sion.  He  never  gave  Elinor  money. 

On  one  of  the  lists  one  day  he  found  the  word,  added  in 
Elinor's  hand:  "Horse." 

"Horse  ?"  he  said,  scowling  up  at  Fraulein.  "There  are  six 
horses  in  the  stable  now." 

"Miss  Elinor  thought — a  riding  horse " 

"Nonsense!"  Then  he  thought  a  moment.  There  came 
back  to  him  a  picture  of  those  English  gentlewomen  from 
among  whom  he  had  selected  his  wife,  quiet-voiced,  hard- 
riding,  high-colored  girls,  who  could  hunt  all  day  and  dance 
all  night.  Elinor  was  a  pale  little  thing.  Besides,  every  gentle 
woman  should  ride. 

"She  can't  ride  around  here." 

"Miss  Elinor  thought — there  are  bridle  paths  near  the  rid 
ing  academy." 

It  was  odd,  but  at  that  moment  Anthony  Cardew  had  an 
odd  sort  of  vision.  He  saw  the  little  grocer  lying  stark  and 
huddled  among  the  phlox  by  the  stable,  and  the  group  of 
men  that  stooped  over  him. 

"I'll  think  about  it,"  was  his  answer. 

But  within  a  few  days  Elinor  was  the  owner  of  a  quiet 
mare,  stabled  at  the  academy,  and  was  riding  each  day  in 
the  tan  bark  ring  between  its  white-washed  fences,  while  a 


30 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

mechanical  piano  gave  an  air  of  festivity  to  what  was  other 
wise  rather  a  solemn  business. 

Within  a  week  of  that  time  the  riding  academy  had  a  new 
instructor,  a  tall,  thin  young  man,  looking  older  than  he 
was,  with  heavy  dark  hair  and  a  manner  of  repressed  insolence. 
A  man,  the  grooms  said  among  themselves,  of  furious  temper 
and  cold  eyes. 

And  in  less  than  four  months  Elinor  Cardew  ran  away  from 
home  and  was  married  to  Jim  Doyle.  Anthony  received  two 
letters  from  a  distant  city,  a  long,  ecstatic  but  terrified  one 
from  his  daughter,  and  one  line  on  a  slip  of  paper  from  her 
husband.  The  one  line  read:  "I  always  pay  my  debts." 

Anthony  made  a  new  will,  leaving  Howard  everything,  and 
had  Elinor's  rooms  closed.  Frdulein  went  away,  weeping  bit 
terly,  and  time  went  on.  Now  and  then  Anthony  heard  in 
directly  from  Doyle.  He  taught  in  a  boys'  school  for  a  time, 
and  was  dismissed  for  his  radical  views.  He  did  brilliant  edi 
torial  work  on  a  Chicago  newspaper,  but  now  and  then  he 
intruded  his  slant-eyed  personal  views,  and  in  the  end  he  lost 
his  position.  Then  he  joined  the  Socialist  party,  and  was 
making  speeches  containing  radical  statements  that  made  the 
police  of  various  cities  watchful.  But  he  managed  to  keep 
within  the  letter  of  the  law. 

Howard  Cardew  married  when  Elinor  had  been  gone  less 
than  a  year.  Married  the  daughter  of  a  small  hotel-keeper  in 
his  college  town,  a  pretty,  soft-voiced  girl,  intelligent  and 
gentle,  and  because  Howard  was  all  old  Anthony  had  left,  he 
took  her  into  his  home.  But  for  many  years  he  did  not 
forgive  her.  He  had  one  hope,  that  she  would  give  Howard  a 
son  to  carry  on  the  line.  Perhaps  the  happiest  months  of 
Grace  Cardew's  married  life  were  those  before  Lily  was 
born,  when  her  delicate  health  was  safeguarded  in  every  way 
by  her  grim  father-in-law.  But  Grace  bore  a  girl  child,  and 
very  nearly  died  in  the  bearing.  Anthony  Cardew  would 
never  have  a  grandson. 

He  was  deeply  resentful.  The  proud  fabric  of  his  own 
weaving  would  descend  in  the  fullness  of  time  to  a  woman, 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 31 

And  Howard  himself — old  Anthony  was  pitilessly  hard  in  his 
judgments — Howard  was  not  a  strong  man.  A  good  man.  A 
good  son,  better  than  he  deserved.  But  amiable,  kindly,  with 
out  force. 

Once  the  cloud  had  lifted,  and  only  once.  Elinor  had  come 
home  to  have  a  child.  She  came  at  night,  a  shabby,  worn 
young  woman,  with  great  eyes  in  a  chalk-white  face,  and  Gray- 
son  had  not  recognized  her  at  first.  He  got  her  some  port 
from  the  dining-room  before  he  let  her  go  into  the  library, 
and  stood  outside  the  door,  his  usually  impassive  face  work 
ing,  during  the  interview  which  followed.  Probably  that  was 
Grayson's  big  hour,  for  if  Anthony  turned  her  out  he  intended 
to  go  in  himself,  and  fight  for  the  woman  he  had  petted  as 
a  child. 

But  Anthony  had  not  turned  her  out.  He  took  one  com 
prehensive  glance  at  her  thin  face  and  distorted  figure.  Then 
he  said : 

"So  this  is  the  way  you  come  back." 

"He  drove  me  out,"  she  said  dully.  "He  sent  me  here.  He 
knew  I  had  no  place  else  to  go.  He  knew  you  wouldn't  want 
mCo  It's  revenge,  I  suppose.  I'm  so  tired,  father." 

Yes,  it  was  revenge,  surely.  To  send  back  to  him  this 
soiled  and  broken  woman,  bearing  the  mark  he  had  put  upon 
her — ,that  was  deviltry,  thought  out  and  shrewdly  executed. 
During  the  next  hour  Anthony  Cardew  suffered,  and  made 
Elinor  suffer,  too.  But  at  the  end  of  that  time  he  found  him 
self  confronting  a  curious  situation.  Elinor,  ashamed,  hum 
bled,  was  not  contrite.  It  began  to  dawn  on  Anthony  that 
Jim  Doyle's  revenge  was  not  finished.  For — Elinor  loved 
the  man. 

She  both  hated  him  and  loved  him.  And  that  leering  Irish 
devil  knew  it. 

He  sent  for  Grace,  finally,  and  Elinor  was  established  in 
the  house.  Grace  and  little  Lily's  governess  had  themselves 
bathed  her  and  put  her  to  bed,  and  Mademoiselle  had  smuggled 
out  of  the  house  the  garments  Elinor  had  worn  into  it.  Grace 
had  gone  in  the  motor — one  of  the  first  in  the  city — and  had 


32 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

sent  back  all  sorts  of  lovely  garments  for  Elinor  to  wear,  and 
quantities  of  fine  materials  to  be  made  into  tiny  garments. 
Grace  was  a  practical  woman,  and  she  disliked  the  brooding 
look  in  Elinor's  eyes. 

"Do  you  know,"  she  said  to  Howard  that  night,  "I  believe 
she  is  quite  mad  about  him  still." 

"He  ought  to  be  drawn  and  quartered,"  said  Howard, 
savagely. 

Anthony  Cardew  gave  Elinor  sanctuary,  but  he  refused  to 
see  her  again.  Except  once. 

"Then,  if  it  is  a  boy,  you  want  me  to  leave  him  with  you?" 
she  asked,  bending  over  her  sewing. 

"Leave  him  with  me!  Do  you  mean  that  you  intend  to  go 
back  to  that  blackguard?" 

"He  is  my  husband.    He  isn't  always  cruel." 

"Good  God !"  shouted  Anthony.  "How  did  I  ever  happen 
to  have  such  a  craven  creature  for  a  daughter?" 

"Anyhow,"  said  Elinor,  "it  will  be  his  child,  father." 

"When  he  turned  you  out,  like  any  drab  of  the  streets!" 
bellowed  old  Anthony.  "He  never  cared  for  you.  He  married 
you  to  revenge  himself  on  me.  He  sent  you  back  here  for 
the  same  reason.  He'll  take  your  child,  and  break  its  spirit  and 
ruin  its  body,  for  the  same  reason.  The  man's  a  maniac." 

But  again,  as  on  the  night  she  came,  he  found  himself 
helpless  against  Elinor's  quiet  impassivity.  He  knew  that,  let 
Jim  Doyle  so  much  as  raise  a  beckoning  finger,  and  she  would 
go  to  him.  He  did  not  realize  that  Elinor  had  inherited  from 
her  quiet  mother  the  dog-like  quality  of  love  in  spite  of  cruelty. 
To  Howard  he  stormed.  He  considered  Elinor's  infatuation 
indecent.  She  was  not  a  Cardew.  The  Cardew  women  had 
some  pride.  And  Howard,  his  handsome  figure  draped  negli 
gently  against  the  library  mantel,  would  puzzle  over  it,  too. 

"I'm  blessed  if  I  understand  it,"  he  would  say. 

Elinor's  child  had  been  a  boy,  and  old  Anthony  found  some 
balm  in  Gilead.  Jim  Doyle  had  not  raised  a  finger  to  beckon, 
and  if  he  knew  of  his  son,  he  made  no  sign.  Anthony  still 
ignored  Elinor,  but  he  saw  in  her  child  the  third  generation 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 33 

of  Cardews.  Lily  he  had  never  counted.  He  took  steps  to 
give  the  child  the  Cardew  name,  and  the  fact  was  announced 
in  the  newspapers.  Then  one  day  Elinor  went  out,  and  did 
not  come  back.  It  was  something  Anthony  Cardew  had  not 
counted  on,  that  a  woman  could  love  a  man  more  than  her 
child. 

"I  simply  had  to  do  it,  father,"  she  wrote.  "You  won't 
understand,  of  course.  I  love  him,  father.  Terribly.  And  he 
loves  me  in  his  way,  even  when  he  is  unfaithful  to  me.  I  know 
he  has  been  that.  Perhaps  if  you  had  wanted  me  at  home  it 
would  have  been  different.  But  it  kills  me  to  leave  the  baby. 
The  only  reason  I  can  bring  myself  to  do  it  is  that,  the  way 
things  are,  I  cannot  give  him  the  things  he  ought  to  have. 
And  Jim  does  not  seem  to  want  him.  He  has  never  seen  him, 
for  one  thing.  Besides — I  am  being  honest — I  don't  think  the 
atmosphere  of  the  way  we  live  would  be  good  for  a  boy." 

There  was  a  letter  to  Grace,  too,  a  wild  hysterical  docu 
ment,  filled  with  instructions  for  the  baby's  care.  A  wet  nurse, 
for  one  thing.  Grace  read  it  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  but  An 
thony  saw  in  it  only  the  ravings  of  a  weak  and  unbalanced 
woman. 

He  never  forgave  Elinor,  and  once  more  the  little  grocer's 
curse  thwarted  his  ambitions.  For,  deprived  of  its  mother's 
milk,  the  baby  died.  Old  Anthony  sometimes  wondered  if 
that,  too,  had  been  calculated,  a  part  of  the  Doyle  revenge. 


CHAPTER  IV 

T7I  7HILE  Grace  rested  that  afternoon  of  Lily's  return,  Lily 
V  V  ranged  over  the  house.  In  twenty  odd  years  the  neigh 
borhood  had  changed,  and  only  a  handful  of  the  old  families 
remained.  Many  of  the  other  large  houses  were  prostituted  to 
base  uses.  Dingy  curtains  hung  at  their  windows,  dingy  be 
cause  of  the  smoke  from  the  great  furnaces  and  railroads. 
The  old  Osgood  residence,  nearby,  had  been  turned  into  apart 
ments,  with  bottles  of  milk  and  paper  bags  on  its  fire-escapes, 
and  a  pharmacy  on  the  street  floor.  The  Methodist  Church, 
following  its  congregation  to  the  vicinity  of  old  Anthony's 
farm,  which  was  now  cut  up  into  city  lots,  had  abandoned  the 
building,  and  it  had  become  a  garage.  The  penitentiary  had 
been  moved  outside  the  city  limits,  and  near  its  old  site  was 
a  small  cement-lined  lake,  the  cheerful  rendezvous  in  sum 
mer  of  bathing  children  and  thirsty  dogs. 

Lily  was  idle,  for  the  first  time  in  months.  She  wandered 
about,  even  penetrating  to  those  upper  rooms  sacred  to  her 
grandfather,  to  which  he  had  retired  on  Howard's  marriage. 
How  strangely  commonplace  they  were  now,  in  the  full  light 
of  day,  a,  id  yet,  when  he  was  in  them,  the  doors  closed  and 
only  Burton,  his  valet,  in  attendance,  how  mysterious  they 
became ! 

/Increasingly,  in  later  years,  Lily  had  felt  and  resented  the 
domination  of  the  old  man.  She  resented  her  father's  ac 
quiescence  in  that  domination,  her  mother's  good-humored 
tolerance  of  it.  She  herself  had  accepted  it,  although  un 
willingly,  but  she  knew,  rather  vaguely,  that  the  Lily  Cardew 
who  had  gone  away  to  the  camp  and  the  Lily  Cardew  who 
stood  that  day  before  her  grandfather's  throne-like  chair  under 
its  lamp,  were  two  entirely  different  people. 

She  was  uneasy  rather  than  defiant.  She  meant  to  keep 
the  peace.  She  had  been  brought  up  to  the  theory  that  no 

34 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 35 

price  was  too  great  to  pay  for  peace.  But  she  wondered,  as 
she  stood  there,  if  that  were  entirely  true.  She  remembered 
something  Willy  Cameron  had  said  about  that  very  thing. 

"What's  wrong  with  your  grandfather,"  he  had  said,  trucu 
lently,  and  waving  his  pipe,  "is  that  everybody  gets  down 
and  lets  him  walk  on  them.  If  everybody  lets  a  man  use  them 
as  doormats,  you  can't  blame  him  for  wiping  his  feet  on  them. 
Tell  him  that  sometime,  and  see  what  happens." 

"Tell  him  yourself!"  said  Lily. 

He  had  smiled  cheerfully.  He  had  an  engaging  sort  of 
smile. 

"Maybe  I  will,"  he  said.  "I  am  a  rising  young  man,  and 
my  voice  may  some  day  be  heard  in  the  land.  Sometimes 
I  feel  the  elements  of  greatness  in  me,  sweet  child.  You 
haven't  happened  to  notice  it  yourself,  have  you  ?" 

He  had  gazed  at  her  with  solemn  anxiety  through  the  smoke 
of  his  pipe,  and  had  grinned  when  she  remained  silent. 

Lily  drew  a  long  breath.  All  that  delightful  fooling  was 
over;  the  hard  work  was  over.  The  nights  were  gone  when 
they  would  wander  like  children  across  the  parade  grounds, 
or  past  the  bayonet  school,  with  its  rows  of  tripods  upholding 
imitation  enemies  made  of  sacks  stuffed  with  hay,  and  showing 
signs  of  mortal  injury  with  their  greasy  entrails  protruding. 
Gone,  too,  were  the  hours  when  Willy  sank  into  the  lowest 
ab\ss  of  depression  over  his  failure  to  be  a  righting  man. 

"But  you  are  doing  your  best  for  your  country,"  she  would 
say. 

"I'm  not  fighting  for  it,  or  getting  smashed  up  for  it.  I 
don't  want  to  be  a  hero,  but  I'd  like  to  have  had  one  good 
bang  at  them  before  I  quit." 

Once  she  had  found  him  in  the  hut,  with  his  head  on  a 
table.  He  said  he  had  a  toothache. 

Well,  that  was  all  over.  She  was  back  in  her  grandfather's 
house,  and — 

"He'll  get  me  too,  probably,"  she  reflected,  as  she  went 
down  the  stairs,  "just  as  he's  got  all  the  others." 

Mademoiselle  was  in  Lily's  small  sitting  room,  while  Castle 


36 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

was  unpacking  under  her  supervision.  The  sight  of  her  uni 
forms  made  Lily  suddenly  restless. 

"How  you  could  wear  these  things !"  cried  Mademoiselle. 
"You,  who  have  always  dressed  like  a  princess!" 

"I  liked  them,"  said  Lily,  briefly.  "Mademoiselle,  what  am 
I  going  to  do  with  myself,  now?" 

"Do  ?"  Mademoiselle  smiled.  "Play,  as  you  deserve,  cherie. 
Dance,  and  meet  nice  young  men.  You  are  to  make  your  debut 
this  fall.  Then  a  very  charming  young  man,  and  marriage/' 

"Oh!"  said  Lily,  rather  blankly.  "I've  got  to  come  out, 
have  I?  I'd  forgotten  people  did  such  things.  Please  run 
along  and  do  something  else,  Castle.  I'll  unpack." 

"That  is  very  bad  for  discipline,"  Mademoiselle  objected 
when  the  maid  had  gone.  "And  it  is  not  necessary  for  Mr. 
Anthony  Cardew's  granddaughter." 

"It's  awfully  necessary  for  her,"  Lily  observed,  cheerfully. 
"I've  been  buttoning  my  own  shoes  for  some  time,  and  I 
haven't  developed  a  spinal  curvature  yet."  She  kissed  Made 
moiselle's  perplexed  face  lightly.  "Don't  get  to  worrying 
about  me,"  she  added.  "I'll  shake  down  in  time,  and  be  just 
as  useless  as  ever.  But  I  wish  you'd  lend  me  your  sewing 
basket." 

"Why?"  asked  Mademoiselle,  suspiciously. 

"Because  I  am  possessed  with  a  mad  desire  to  sew  on  some 
buttons." 

A  little  later  Lily  looked  up  from  her  rather  awkward  but 
industrious  labors  with  a  needle,  and  fixed  her  keen  young 
eyes  on  Mademoiselle. 

"Is  there  any  news  about  Aunt  Elinor  ?"  she  asked. 

"She  is  with  him,"  said  Mademoiselle,  shortly.  "They  are 
here  now,  in  the  city.  How  he  dared  to  come  back !" 

"Ooes  mother  see  her?" 

"No.     Certainly  not." 

"Why  'certainly'  not?  He  is  Aunt  Elinor's  husband.  She 
isn't  doing  anything  wicked." 

"A  woman  who  would  leave  a  home  like  this,"  said  Made 
moiselle,  "and  a  distinguished  family.  Position.  Wealth. 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 37 

For  a  brute  who  beats  her.     Arid   desert   her   child  also!" 

"Does  he  really  beat  her?  I  don't  quite  believe  that,  Made 
moiselle." 

"It  is  not  a  subject  for  a  young  girl." 

"Because  really,"  Lily  went  on,  "there  is  something  awfully 
big  about  a  woman  who  will  stick  to  one  man  like  that.  I 
am  quite  sure  I  would  bite  a  man  who  struck  me,  but — suppose 
I  loved  him  terribly — "  her  voice  trailed  off.  "You  see,  dear, 
I  have  seen  a  lot  of  brutality  lately.  An  army  camp  isn't  a 
Sunday  school  picnic.  And  I  like  strong  men,  even  if  they 
are  brutal  sometimes." 

Mademoiselle  carefully  cut  a  thread. 

"This — you  were  speaking  to  Ellen  of  a  young  man.  Is 
he  a — what  you  term  brutal?" 

Suddenly  Lily  laughed. 

"You  poor  dear!"  she  said.  "And  mother,  too,  of  course! 
You're  afraid  I'm  in  love  with  Willy  Cameron.  Don't  you 
know  that  if  I  were,  I'd  probably  never  even  mention  his 
name  ?" 

"But  is  he  brutal  ?"  persisted  Mademoiselle. 

"I'll  tell  you  about  him.  He  is  a  thin,  blond  young  man, 
tall  and  a  bit  lame.  He  has  curly  hair,  and  he  puts  pomade 
on  it  to  take  the  curl  out.  He  is  frightfully  sensitive  about 
not  getting  in  the  army,  and  he  is  perfectly  sweet  and  kind, 
and  as  brutal  as  a  June  breeze.  You'd  better  tell  mother.  And 
you  can  tell  her  he  isn't  in  love  with  me,  or  I  with  him. 
You  see,  I  represent  what  he  would  call  the  monied  aris 
tocracy  of  America,  and  he  has  the  most  fearful  ideas 
about  us." 

"An  anarchist,  then?"  asked  Mademoiselle,  extremely  com 
forted. 

"Not  at  all.  He  says  he  belongs  to  the  plain  people.  The 
people  in  between.  He  is  rather  oratorical  about  them.  He 
calls  them  the  backbone  of  the  country." 

Mademoiselle  relaxed.  She  had  been  too  long  in  old  An 
thony's  house  to  consider  very  seriously  the  plain  people.  Her 
world,  like  Anthony  Cardew's,  consisted  of  the  financial  aris- 


38 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

tocracy,  which  invested  money  in  industries  and  drew  out 
rich  returns,  while  providing  employment  for  the  many;  and 
of  the  employees  of  the  magnates,  who  had  recently  shown 
strong  tendencies  toward  upsetting  the  peace  of  the  land,  and 
had  given  old  Anthony  one  or  two  attacks  of  irritability  when 
it  was  better  to  go  up  a  rear  staircase  if  he  were  coming  down 
the  main  one. 

"Wait  a  moment/'  said  Lily,  suddenly.  "I  have  a  picture 
of  him  somewhere." 

She  disappeared,  and  Mademoiselle  heard  her  rummaging 
through  the  drawers  of  her  dressing  table.  She  came  back 
with  a  small  photograph  in  her  hand. 

It  showed  a  young  man,  in  a  large  apron  over  a  Red  Cross 
uniform,  bending  over  a  low  field  range  with  a  long-handled 
fork  in  his  hand. 

"Frying  doughnuts,"  Lily  explained.  "I  was  in  this  hut 
at  first,  and  I  mixed  them  and  cut  them,  and  he  fried  them. 
We  made  thousands  of  them.  We  used  to  talk  about  open 
ing  a  shop  somewhere,  Cardew  and  Cameron.  He  said  my 
name  would  be  fine  for  business.  He'd  fry  them  in  the  win 
dow,  and  I'd  sell  them.  And  a  coffee  machine — coffee  and 
doughnuts,  you  know." 

"Not— seriously?" 

At  the  expression  on  Mademoiselle's  face  Lily  laughed 
joyously. 

''Why  not  ?"  she  demanded.  "And  you  could  be  the  cashier, 
like  the  ones  in  France,  and  sit  behind  a  high  desk  and  count 
money  all  day.  I'd  rather  do  that  than  come  out,"  she  added. 

"You  are  going  to  be  a  good  girl,  Lily,  aren't  you  ?" 

"If  that  means  letting  grandfather  use  me  for  a  doormat, 
I  don't  know." 

"Lily!" 

"He's  old,  and  I  intend  to  be  careful.  But  he  doesn't  own 
me,  body  and  soul.  And  it  may  be  hard  to  make  him  under 
stand  that." 

Many  times  in  the  next  few  months  Mademoiselle  was  to 
remember  that  conversation,  and  turn  it  over  in  her  shrewd,- 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 39 

troubled  mind.  Was  there  anything  she  could  have  done,  out 
side  of  warning  old  Anthony  himself?  Suppose  she  had  gone 
to  Mr.  Howard  Cardew? 

"And  how,"  said  Mademoiselle,  trying  to  smile,  "do  you 
propose  to  assert  this  new  independence  of  spirit  ?" 

"I  am  going  to  see  Aunt  Elinor,"  observed  Lily.  "There, 
that's  eleven  buttons  on,  and  I  feel  I've  earned  my  dinner.  And 
I'm  going  to  ask  Willy  Cameron  to  come  here  to  see  me.  To 
dinner.  And  as  he  is  sure  not  to  have  any  evening  clothes, 
for  one  night  in  their  lives  the  Cardew  men  are  going  to  dine 
in  mufti.  Which  is  military,  you  dear  old  thing,  for  the  every 
day  clothing  that  the  plain  people  eat  in,  without  apparent 
suffering !" 

Mademoiselle  got  up.  She  felt  that  Grace  should  be  warned 
at  once.  And  there  was  a  look  in  Lily's  face  when  she  men 
tioned  this  Cameron  creature  that  made  Mademoiselle  nervous. 

"I  thought  he  lived  in  the  country." 

"Then  prepare  yourself  for  a  blow,"  said  Lily  Cardew, 
cheerfully.  "He  is  here  in  the  city,  earning  twenty-five  dollars 
a  week  in  the  Eagle  Pharmacy,  and  serving  the  plain  people 
perfectly  preposterous  patent  potions — which  is  his  own  allit 
eration,  and  pretty  good,  I  say." 

Mademoiselle  went  out  into  the  hall.  Over  the  house, 
always  silent,  there  had  come  a  death-like  hush.  In  the  lower 
hall  the  footman  was  hanging  up  his  master's  hat  and  over 
coat.  Anthony  Cardew  had  come  home  for  dinner. 


CHAPTER  V 

MR.  WILLIAM  WALLACE  CAMERON,  that  evening  of 
Lily's  return,  took  a  walk.  From  his  boarding  house 
near  the  Eagle  Pharmacy  to  the  Cardew  residence  was  a  half- 
hour's  walk.  There  were  a  number  of  things  he  had  meant 
to  do  that  evening,  with  a  view  to  improving  his  mind,  but 
instead  he  took  a  walk.  He  had  made  up  a  schedule  for  those 
evenings  when  he  was  off  duty,  thinking  it  out  very  carefully 
on  the  train  to  the  city.  And  the  schedule  ran  something 
like  this : 

Monday:  S-n.     Read  History. 

Wednesday:  8-n.     Read  Politics  and  Economics. 

Friday:  8-9:30.    Travel.    9:30-11.     French. 

Sunday :  Hear  various  prominent  divines. 

He  had  cut  down  on  the  travel  rather  severely,  because 
travel  was  with  him  an  indulgence  rather  than  a  study.  The 
longest  journey  he  had  ever  taken  in  his  life  was  to  Washing 
ton.  That  was  early  in  the  war,  when  it  did  not  seem  possi 
ble  that  his  country  would  not  use  him,  a  boy  who  could  tramp 
incredible  miles  in  spite  of  his  lameness  and  who  could  shoot  a 
frightened  rabbit  at  almost  any  distance,  by  allowing  for  a 
slight  deflection  to  the  right  in  the  barrel  of  his  old  rifle. 

But  they  had  refused  him. 

"They  won't  use  me,  mother,"  he  had  said  when  he  got 
home,  home  being  a  small  neat  house  on  a  tidy  street  of  a 
little  country  town.  "I  tried  every  branch,  but  the  only  train 
ing  I've  had — well,  some  smart  kid  said  they  weren't  planning 
to  serve  soda  water  to  the  army.  They  didn't  want  cripples, 
you  see." 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't,  Willy." 

He  had  been  frightfully  sorry  then  and  had  comforted  her 
at  some  length,  but  the  fact  remained. 

"And  you  the  very  best  they've  ever  had  for  mixing  pre- 
40 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN  41 

scriptions !"  she  had  said  at  last.  "And  a  graduate  in  chem 
istry!" 

"Well,"  he  said,  "that's  that,  and  we  won't  worry  about  it. 
There's  more  than  one  way  of  killing  a  cat." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Willy?    More  than  one  way?" 

There  was  no  light  of  prophecy  in  William  Wallace  Camer 
on's  gray  eyes,  however,  when  he  replied:  "'More  than 
one  way  of  serving  my  country.  Don't  you  worry.  I'll  find 
something." 

So  he  had,  and  he  had  come  out  of  his  Red  Cross  work 
in  the  camp  with  one  or  two  things  in  his  heart  that  had  not 
been  there  before.  One  was  a  knowledge  of  men.  He  could 
not  have  put  into  words  what  he  felt  about  men.  It  was 
something  about  the  fundamental  simplicity  of  them,  for  one 
thing.  You  got  pretty  close  to  them  at  night  sometimes,  espe 
cially  when  the  homesick  ones  had  gone  to  bed,  and  the  phono 
graph  was  playing  in  a  corner  of  the  long,  dim  room.  There 
were  some  shame- faced  tears  hidden  under  army  blankets 
those  nights,  and  Willy  Cameron  did  some  blinking  on  his 
own  account. 

Then,  under  all  the  blasphemy,  the  talk  about  women,  the 
surface  sordidness  of  their  daily  lives  and  thoughts,  there 
was  one  instinct  common  to  all,  one  love,  one  hidden  purity. 
And  the  keyword  to  those  depths  was  "home." 

"Home,"  he  said  one  day  to  Lily  Cardew.  "Mostly  it's  the 
home  they've  left,  and  maybe  they  didn't  think  so  much  of 
it  then.  But  they  do  now.  And  if  it  isn't  that,  it's  the  home 
they  want  to  have  some  day."  He  looked  at  Lily.  Some 
times  she  smiled  at  things  he  said,  and  if  she  had  not  been 
grave  he  would  not  have  gone  on.  "You  know,"  he  con 
tinued,  "there's  mostly  a  girl  some  place.  All  this  talk  about 

the  nation,  now "  He  settled  himself  on  the  edge  of  the 

pine  table  where  old  Anthony  Cardew's  granddaughter  had 
been  figuring  up  her  week's  accounts,  and  lighted  his  pipe,  "the 
nation's  too  big  for  us  to  understand.  But  what  is  the  nation 
but  a  bunch  of  homes?" 


42 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

"Willy  dear,"  said  Lily  Cardew,  "did  you  take  any  money 
out  of  the  cigar  box  for  anything  this  week?" 

"Dollar  sixty-five  for  lard,"  replied  Willy  dear.  "As  I 
was  saying,  we've  got  to  think  of  this  country  in  terms  of 
homes.  Not  palaces  like  yours " 

"Good  gracious !"  said  Lily,  "I  don't  live  in  a  palace.  Get 
my  pocket-book,  will  you?  I'm  out  three  dollars  somehow, 
and  I'd  rather  make  it  up  myself  than  add  these  figures  over 
again.  Go  on  and  talk,  Willy.  I  love  hearing  you." 

"Not  palaces  like  yours,"  repeated  Mr.  Cameron,  "and  not 
hovels.  But  mostly  self-respecting  houses,  the  homes  of  the 
plain  people.  The  middle  class,  Miss  Cardew.  My  class.  The 
people  who  never  say  anything,  but  are  squeezed  between 
capital,  represented  by  your  grandfather,  with  its  parasites, 
represented  by  you,  and " 

"You  represent  the  people  who  never  say  anything,"  ob 
served  the  slightly  flushed  parasite  of  capital,  "about  as  ade 
quately  as  I  represent  the  idle  rich." 

Yet  not  even  old  Anthony  could  have  resented  the  actual 
relationship  between  them.  Lily  Cardew,  working  alone  in  her 
hut  among  hundreds  of  men,  was  as  without  sex  consciousness 
as  a  child.  Even  then  her  flaming  interest  was  in  the  private 
soldiers.  The  officers  were  able  to  amuse  themselves;  they 
had  money  and  opportunity.  It  was  the  doughboys  she  loved 
and  mothered.  For  them  she  organized  her  little  entertain 
ments.  For  them  she  played  and  sang  in  the  evenings,  when 
the  field  range  in  the  kitchen  was  cold,  and  her  blistered  fingers 
stumbled  sometimes  over  the  keys  of  the  jingling  camp  piano. 

Gradually,  out  of  the  chaos  of  her  early  impressions,  she 
began  to  divide  the  men  in  the  army  into  three  parts.  There 
were  the  American  born;  they  took  the  war  and  their  part 
in  it  as  a  job  to  be'  done,  with  as  few  words  as  possible.  And 
there  were  the  foreigners  to  whom  America  was  a  religion,  a 
dream  come  true,  whose  flaming  love  for  their  new  mother 
inspired  them  to  stuttering  eloquence  and  awkward  gestures. 
And  then  there  was  a  third  division,  small  and  mostly  foreign 
born,  but  with  a  certain  percentage  of  native  malcontents,  who 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 43- 

hated  the  war  and  sneered  among  themselves  at  the  other 
dupes  who  believed  that  it  was  a  war  for  freedom.  It  was 
a  capitalists'  war.  They  considered  the  state  as  an  instru 
ment  of  oppression,  as  a  bungling  interference  with  liberty 
and  labor;  they  felt  that  wealth  inevitably  brought  depravity. 
They  committed  both  open  and  overt  acts  against  discipline, 
and  found  in  their  arrest  and  imprisonment  renewed  griev 
ances,  additional  oppression,  tyranny.  And  one  day  a  hand 
ful  of  them,  having  learned  Lily's  identity,  came  into  her 
hut  and  attempted  to  bait  her. 

"Gentlemen/'  said  one  of  them,  "we  have  here  an  example 
of  one  of  the  idle  rich,  sacrificing  herself  to  make  us  happy. 
Now,  boys,  be  happy.  Are  we  all  happy?"  He  surveyed  the 
group.  "Here,  you/'  he  addressed  a  sullen-eyed  squat  Hun 
garian.  "Smile  when  I  tell  you.  You're  a  slave  in  one  of  old 
Cardew's  mills,  aren't  you  ?  Well,  aren't  you  grateful  to  him  ? 
Here  he  goes  and  sends  his  granddaughter " 

Willy  Cameron  had  entered  the  room  with  a  platter  of 
doughnuts  in  his  hand,  and  stood  watching,  his  face  going 
pale.  Quite  suddenly  there  was  a  crash,  and  the\gang  leader 
went  down  in  a  welter  of  porcelain  and  fried  pastry.  Willy 
Cameron  was  badly  beaten  up,  in  the  end,  and  the  baiters  were 
court-martialed.  But  something  of  Lily's  fine  faith\  in  hu 
manity  was  gone. 

"But,"  she  said  to  him,  visiting  him  one  day  in  the  base 
hospital,  where  he  was  still  an  aching  mass  of  bruises,  "there 
must  be  something  behind  it.  They  didn't  hate  me.  They  only 
hated  my — well,  my  family." 

"My  dear  child,"  said  Willy  Cameron,  feeling  very  old  and 
experienced,  and,  it  must  be  confessed,  extremely  happy,  "of 
course  there's  something  behind  it.  But  the  most  that's  be 
hind  it  is  a  lot  of  fellows  who  want  without  working  what 
the  other  fellow's  worked  to  get." 

It  was  about  that  time  that  Lily  was  exchanged  into  the 
town  near  the  camp,  and  Willy  Cameron  suddenly  found  life 
a  stale  thing,  and  ashes  in  the  mouth.  He  finally  decided 
that  he  had  not  been  such  a  hopeless  fool  as  to  fall  in  love 


44 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

with  her,  but  that  it  would  be  as  well  not  to  see  her  too  much. 

'The  thing  to  do,"  he  reasoned  to  himself,  "is,  first  of  all, 
not  to  see  her.  Or  only  on  Friday  nights,  because  she  likes 
the  movies,  and  it  would  look  queer  to  stop."  Thus  Willy 
Cameron  speciously  to  himself,  and  deliberately  ignoring  the 
fact  that  some  twenty-odd  officers  stood  ready  to  seize  those 
Friday  nights.  "And  then  to  work  hard,  so  I'll  sleep  better, 
and  not  lie  awake  making  a  fool  of  myself.  And  when  I  get 
a  bit  of  idiocy  in  the  daytime,  I'd  better  just  walk  it  off.  Be 
cause  I've  got  to  live  with  myself  a  long  time,  probably, 
and  I'm  no  love-sick  Romeo." 

Which  excellent  practical  advice  had  cost  him  consider 
able  shoe-leather  at  first.  In  a  month  or  two,  however,  he  con 
sidered  himself  quite  cured,  and  pretended  to  himself  that 
he  was  surprised  to  find  it  Friday  again.  But  when,  after 
retreat,  the  band  marched  back  again  to  its  quarters  play 
ing,  for  instance,  "There's  a  Long,  Long  Trail,"  there  was 
something  inside  him  that  insisted  on  seeing  the  years  ahead 
as  a  long,  long  trail,  and  that  the  trail  did  not  lead  to  the 
lands  of  his  dreams. 

He  got  to  know  that  very  well  indeed  during  the  winter  that 
followed  the  armistice.  Because  there  was  work  to  do  he 
stayed  and  finished  up,  as  did  Lily  Cardew.  But  the  hut  was 
closed  and  she  was  working  in  the  town,  and  although  they 
kept  up  their  Friday  evenings,  the  old  intimacy  was  gone.  And 
one  night  she  said : 

"Isn't  it  amazing,  when  you  are  busy,  how  soon  Friday 
night  comes  along?" 

And  on  each  day  of  the  preceding  week  he  had  wakened 

and  said  to  himself:  "This  is  Monday "  — or  whatever  it 

might  be — "and  in  four  more  days  it  will  be  Friday." 

In  February  he  was  sent  home.  Lily  stayed  on  until  the  end 
of  March.  He  went  back  to  his  little  village  of  plain  people, 
and  took  »up  life  again  as  best  he  could.  Bttt  sometimes  it 
seemed  to  him  that  from  behind  every  fire-lit  window  in  the 
evenings — he  was  still  wearing  out  shoe-leather,  particularly 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 45 

at  nights — somebody  with  a  mandolin  was  wailing  about  the 
long,  long  trail. 

His  mother  watched  him  anxiously.  He  was  thinner  than 
ever,  and  oddly  older,  and  there  was  a  hollow  look  about  his 
eyes  that  hurt  her. 

"Why  don't  you  bring  home  a  bottle  of  tonic  from  the 
store,  Willy,"  she  said,  one  evening  when  he  had  been  fever 
ishly  running  through  the  city  newspaper.  He  put  the  paper 
aside  hastily. 

''Tonic!"  he  said.  "Why,  I'm  all  right,  mother.  Anyhow, 
I  wouldn't  take  any  of  that  stuff."  He  caught  her  eye  and 
looked  away.  "It  takes  a  little  time  to  get  settled  again, 
that's  all,  mother." 

"The  Young  People's  Society  is  having  an  entertainment 
at  the  church  to-night,  Willy." 

"Well,  maybe  I'll  go,"  he  agreed  to  her  unspoken  suggestion. 
"If  you  insist  on  making  me  a  society  man " 

But  some  time  later  he  came  downstairs  with  a  book. 

"Thought  I'd  rather  read,"  he  explained.  "Got  a  book  here 
on  the  history  of  steel.  Talk  about  romances !  Let  me  read 
some  of  it  to  you.  You  sit  there  and  close  your  eyes  and 
just  listen  to  this :  'The  first  Cardew  furnace  was  built  in  1868. 
At  that  time '  " 

Some  time  later  he  glanced  up.  His  mother  was  quietly 
sleeping,  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap.  He  closed  the  book  and 
sat  there,  fighting  again  his  patient  battle  with  himself.  The 
book  on  his  knee  seemed  to  symbolize  the  gulf  between  Lily 
Cardew  and  himself.  But  the  real  gulf,  the  unbridgeable 
chasm,  between  Lily  and  himself,  was  neither  social  nor 
financial. 

"As  if  that  counted,  in  America,"  he  reflected  scornfully. 

No.  It  was  not  that.  The  war  had  temporarily  broken 
down  the  old  social  barriers.  Some  of  them  would  never  be 
erected  again,  although  it  was  the  tendency  of  civilization  for 
men  to  divide  themselves,  rather  than  to  be  divided,  into 
the  high,  the  middle  and  the  low.  But  in  his  generation  young 
Cameron  knew  that  there  would  be  no  uncrossable  bridge 


46 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

between  old  Anthony's  granddaughter  and  himself,  were  it 
not  for  one  thing. 

She  did  not  love  him.  It  hurt  his  pride  to  realize  that 
she  had  never  thought  of  him  in  any  terms  but  that  of  a 
pleasant  comradeship.  Hardly  even  as  a  man.  Men  fought, 
in  war  time.  They  did  not  fry  doughnuts  and  write  letters 
home  for  the  illiterate.  Any  one  of  those  boys  in  the  ranks 
was  a  better  man  than  he  was.  All  this  talk  about  a  man's 
soul  being  greater  than  his  body,  that  was  rot.  A  man  was 
as  good  as  the  weakest  part  of  him,  and  no  more. 

His  sensitive  face  in  the  lamplight  was  etched  with  lines 
of  tragedy.  He  put  the  book  on  the  table,  and  suddenly 
flinging  his  arms  across  it,  dropped  his  head  on  them.  The 
slight  movement  wakened  his  mother, 

"Why,  Willy!"  she  said. 

After  a  moment  he  looked  up.  "I  was  almost  asleep/'  he 
explained,  more  to  protect  her  than  himself.  "I — I  wish  that 
fool  Nelson  kid  would  break  his  mandolin — or  his  neck,"  he 
said  irritably.  He  kissed  her  and  went  upstairs.  From  across 
the  quiet  street  there  came  thin,  plaintive,  occasionally  inac 
curate,  the  strains  of  the  long,  long  trail. 

There  was  the  blood  of  Covenanters  in  Willy  Cameron's 
mother,  a  high  courage  of  sacrifice,  and  an  exceedingly  shrewd 
brain.  She  lay  awake  that  night,  carefully  planning,  and 
when  everything  was  arranged  in  orderly  fashion  in  her  mind, 
she  lighted  her  lamp  and  carried  it  to  the  door  of  Willy's  room. 
He  lay  diagonally  across  his  golden-oak  bed,  for  he  was  very 
long,  and  sleep  had  rubbed  away  the  tragic  lines  about  his 
mouth.  She  closed  his  door  arid  went  back  to  her  bed. 

"I've  seen  too  much  of  it,"  she  reflected,  without  bitterness. 
She  stared  around  the  room.  "Too  much  of  it,"  she  re 
peated.  And  crawled  heavily  back  into  bed,  a  determined 
little  figure,  rather  chilled. 

The  next  morning  she  expressed  a  desire  to  spend  a  few 
months  with  her  brother  in  California. 

"I  coughed  all  last  winter,  after  I  had  the  flu,"  she  ex 
plained,  "and  James  has  been  wanting  me  this  long  time.  I 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 47 

don't  want  to  leave  you,  that's  all,  Willy.     If  you  were  in 
the  city  it  would  be  different." 

He  was  frankly  bewildered  and  a  little  hurt,  to  tell  the 
truth.  He  no  more  suspected  her  of  design  than  of  crime. 

"Of  course  you  are  going,"  he  said,  heartily.  "It's  the  very 
tiling.  But  I  like  the  way  you  desert  your  little  son!" 

"I've  been  thinking  about  that,  too,"  she  said,  pouring  his 
coffee.  "I — if  you  were  in  the  city,  now,  there  would  always 
be  something  to  do." 

He  shot  her  a  suspicious  glance,  but  her  face  was  without 
evidence  of  guile. 

"What  would  I  do  in  the  city?" 

"They  use  chemists  in  the  mills,  don't  they  ?" 

"A  fat  chance  I'd  have  for  that  sort  of  job,"  he  scoffed. 
"No  city  for  me,  mother." 

But  she  knew.  She  read  his  hesitation  accurately,  the  in 
credulous  pause  of  the  bird  whose  cage  door  is  suddenly 
opened.  He  would  go. 

"I'd  think  about  it,  anyhow,  Willy." 

But  for  a  long  time  after  he  had  gone  she  sat  quietly  rock 
ing  in  her  rocking  chair  in  the  bay  window  of  the  sitting 
room.  It  was  a  familiar  attitude  of  hers,  homely,  middle- 
class,  and  in  a  way  symbolic.  Had  old  Anthony  Cardew  ever 
visualized  so  imaginative  a  thing  as  a  Nemesis,  he  would 
probably  have  summoned  a  vision  of  a  huddled  figure  in  his 
stable-yard,  dying,  and  cursing  him  as  he  died.  Had  Jim 
Doyle,  cunningly  plotting  the  overthrow  of  law  and  order, 
been  able  in  his  arrogance  to  conceive  of  such  a  thing,  it 
might  have  been  Anthony  Cardew  he  saw.  Neither  of  them, 
for  a  moment,  dreamed  of  it  as  an  elderly  Scotch  Cov 
enanter,  a  plain  little  womanly  figure,  rocking  in  a  cane-seated 
rocking  chair,  and  making  the  great  sacrifice  of  her  life. 

All  of  which  simply  explains  how,  on  a  March  Wednes 
day  evening  of  the  great  year  of  peace  after  much  tribula 
tion,  Mr.  William  Wallace  Cameron,  now  a  clerk  at  the  Eagle 
Pharmacy,  after  an  hour  of  Politics,  and  no  Economics  at 
all,  happened  to  be  taking  a  walk  toward  the  Cardew  house. 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 


Such  pilgrimages  has  love  taken  for  many  years,  small  un 
certain  ramblings  where  the  fancy  leads  the  feet  and  far 
outstrips  them,  and  where  heart-hunger  hides  under  various 
flimsy  pretexts;  a  fine  night,  a  paper  to  be  bought,  a  dog  to 
be  exercised. 

Not  that  Willy  Cameron  made  any  excuses  to  himself.  He 
had  a  sort  of  idea  that  if  he  saw  the  magnificence  that  housed 
her,  it  would  through  her  sheer  remoteness  kill  the  misery 
in  him.  But  he  regarded  himself  with  a  sort  of  humorous 
pity,  and  having  picked  up  a  stray  dog,  he  addressed  it  now 
and  then. 

"Even  a  cat  can  look  at  a  king,"  he  said  once.  And  again, 
following  some  vague  train  of  thought,  on  a  crowded  street: 
"The  People's  voice  is  a  queer  thing.  'It  is,  and  it  is  not,  the 
voice  of  God.'  The  people's  voice,  old  man.  Only  the  ones 
that  count  haven't  got  a  voice." 

There  were,  he  felt,  two  Lily  Cardews.  One  lived  in  an 
army  camp,  and  wore  plain  clothes,  and  got  a  bath  by  means 
of  calculation  and  persistency,  and  went  to  the  movies  011 
Friday  nights,  and  was  quite  apt  to  eat  peanuts  at  those  times, 
carefully  putting  the  shells  in  her  pocket. 

And  another  one  lived  inside  this  great  pile  of  brick, — he 
was  standing  across  from  it,  by  the  park  railing,  by  that  time 
— where  motor  cars  drew  up,  and  a  footman  with  an  um 
brella  against  a  light  rain  ushered  to  their  limousines  draped 
women  and  men  in  evening  clothes,  their  strong  blacks  and 
whites  revealed  in  the  light  of  the  street  door.  And  this  Lily 
Cardew  lived  in  state,  bowed  to  by  flunkeys  in  livery,  dressed 
and  undressed — his  Scotch  sense  of  decorum  resented  this — 
by  serving  women.  This  Lily  Cardew  would  wear  frivolous 
ball-gowns,  such  things  as  he  saw  in  the  shop  windows,  con 
sidered  money  only  as  a  thing  of  exchange,  and  had  traveled 
all  over  Europe  a  number  of  times. 

He  took  his  station  against  the  park  railings  and  reflected 
that  it  was  a  good  thing  he  had  come,  after  all.  Because  it 
was  the  first  Lily  whom  he  loved,  and  she  was  gone,  with  the 
camp  and  the  rest,  including  war.  What  had  he  in  common 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 49 

with  those  lighted  windows,  with  their  heavy  laces  and 
draperies  ? 

"Nothing  at  all,  old  man,"  he  said  cheerfully  to  the  dog, 
"nothing  at  all." 

But  although  the  ache  was  gone  when  he  turned  homeward, 
the  dog  still  at  his  heels,  he  felt  strangely  lonely  without  it. 
He  considered  that  very  definitely  he  had  put  love  out  of  his 
life.  Hereafter  he  would  travel  the  trail  alone.  Or  ac 
companied  only  by  History,  Politics,  Economics,  and  various 
divines  on  Sunday  evenings. 


\ 


CHAPTER  VI 

*fT  TELL,  grandfather/'  said  Lily  Cardew,  "the  last  of  the 
VV       Cardews  is  home  from  the  wars." 

"So  I  presume/'  observed  old  Anthony.  "Owing,  however, 
to  your  mother's  determination  to  shroud  this  room  in  impene 
trable  gloom,  I  can  only  presume.  I  cannot  see  you." 

His  tone  was  less  unpleasant  than  his  words,  however.  He 
was  in  one  of  the  rare  moods  of  what  passed  with  him  for 
geniality.  For  one  thing,  he  had  won  at  the  club  that  af 
ternoon,  where  every  day  from  four  to  six  he  played  bridge 
with  his  own  little  group,  reactionaries  like  himself,  men 
who  viewed  the  difficulties  of  the  younger  employers  of  la 
bor  with  amused  contempt.  For  another,  he  and  Howard 
had  had  a  difference  of  opinion,  and  he  had,  for  a  wonder, 
made  Howard  angry. 

"Well,  Lily,"  he  inquired,  "how  does  it  seem  to  be 
at  home  ?" 

Lily  eyed  him  almost  warily.  He  was  sometimes  most  dan 
gerous  in  these  moods. 

"I'm  not  sure,  grandfather." 

"Not  sure  about  what?" 

"Well,  I  am  glad  to  see  everybody,  of  course.  But  what 
am  I  to  do  with  myself  ?" 

"Tut."  He  had  an  air  of  benignantly  forgiving  her. 
"You'll  find  plenty.  What  did  you  do  before  you  went  away  r" 

"That  was  different,  grandfather." 

"I'm  blessed,"  said  old  Anthony,  truculently,  "if  I  un 
derstand  what  has  come  over  this  country,  anyhow.  What 
is  different?  We've  had  a  war.  We've  had  other  wars,  and 
we  didn't  think  it  necessary  to  change  the  Constitution  after 
them.  But  everything  that  was  right  before  this  war  is  wrong 
after  it.  Lot  of  young  idiots  coming  back  and  refusing  to 
settle  down.  Set  of  young  Bolshevists !"  ytn 

5o  / 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 51 

He  had  always  managed  to  arouse  a  controversial  spirit 
in  the  girl. 

"Maybe,  if  it  isn't  right  now,  it  wasn't  right  before." 

Having  said  it,  Lily  immediately  believed  it.  She  felt 
suddenly  fired  with  an  intense  dislike  of  anything  that  her 
grandfather  advocated. 

"Meaning  what?"  He  fixed  her  with  cold  but  attentive 
eyes. 

"Oh — conditions,"  she  said  vaguely.  She  was  not  at  all 
sure  what  she  meant.  And  old  Anthony  realized  it,  and  gave 
a  sardonic  chuckle. 

"I  advise  you  to  get  a  few  arguments  from  your  father, 
Lily.  He  is  full  of  them.  If  he  had  his  way  I'd  have  a  board 
of  my  workmen  running  my  mills,  while  I  played  golf  in 
Florida." 

Dinner  was  a  relatively  pleasant  meal.  In  her  gradual  re 
habilitation  of  the  house  Grace  had  finally  succeeded  in  do 
ing  over  the  dining  room.  Over  the  old  walnut  paneling  she 
had  hung  loose  folds  of  faded  blue  Italian  velvet,  with  old 
silver  candle  sconces  at  irregular  intervals  along  the  walls. 
The  great  table  and  high-backed  chairs  were  likewise  Italian, 
and  the  old-fashioned  white  marble  fireplace  had  been  given 
an  over-mantel,  also  white,  enclosing  an  old  tapestry.  For 
warmth  of  color  there  were  always  flowers,  and  that  night 
there  were  red  roses. 

Lily  liked  the  luxury  of  it.  She  liked  the  immaculate  din 
ner  dress  of  the  two  men;  she  liked  her  mother's  beautiful 
neck  and  arms;  she  liked  the  quiet  service  once  more;  she 
even  liked  herself,  moderately,  in  a  light  frock  and  slippers. 
But  she  watched  it  all  with  a  new  interest  and  a  certain  de 
tachment.  She  felt  strange  and  aloof,  not  entirely  one  of 
them.  She  felt  very  keenly  that  no  one  of  them  was  vitally  in 
terested  in  this  wonder-year  of  hers.  They  asked  her  per 
functory  questions,  but  Grace's  watchful  eyes  were  on  the 
service,  Anthony  was  engrossed  with  his  food,  and  her  fa 
ther— 

Her  father  was  changed.    He  looked  older  and  care-worn. 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 


For  the  first  time  she  began  to  wonder  about  her  father. 
What  was  he,  really,  tinder  that  calm,  fastidiously  dressed, 
handsome  exterior?  Did  he  mind  the  little  man  with  the 
sardonic  smile  and  the  swift  unpleasant  humor,  whose  glance 
reduced  the  men  who  served  into  terrified  menials?  Her 
big,  blond  father,  with  his  rather  slow  speech,  his  honest 
eyes,  his  slight  hesitation  before  he  grasped  some  of  the  finer 
nuances  of  his  father's  wit.  No,  he  was  not  brilliant,  but 
he  was  real,  real  and  kindly.  Perhaps  he  was  strong,  too. 
He  looked  strong. 

With  the  same  pitiless  judgment  she  watched  her  mother. 
Either  Grace  was  very  big,  or  very  indifferent  to  the  sting 
of  old  Anthony's  tongue.  Sometimes  women  suffered  much 
in  silence,  because  they  loved  greatly.  Like  Aunt  Elinor. 
Aunt  Elinor  had  loved  her  husband  more  than  she  had  loved 
her  child.  Quite  calmly  Lily  decided  that,  as  between  her 
husband  and  herself,  her  mother  loved  her  husband.  Per 
haps  that  was  as  it  should  be,  but  it  added  to  her  sense  of 
aloofness.  And  she  wondered,  too,  about  these  great  loves 
that  seemed  to  feed  on  sacrifice. 

Anthony,  who  had  a  most  unpleasant  faculty  of  remem 
bering  things,  suddenly  bent  forward  and  observed  to  her, 
across  the  table  : 

"I  should  be  interested  to  know,  since  you  regard  present 
conditions  as  wrong,  and,  I  inferred,  wrong  because  of  my 
mishandling  of  them,  just  what  you  would  propose  to  do  to 
right  them/' 

''But  I  didn't  say  they  were  wrong,  did  I  ?" 

"Don't  answer  a  question  with  a  question.  It's  a  feminine 
form  of  evasion,  because  you  have  no  answer  and  no  rem 
edy.  Yet,  heaven  save  the  country,  women  are  going  to  vote  !" 
He  pushed  his  plate  away  and  glanced  at  Grace.  "Is  that 
the  new  chef's  work  ?" 

"Yes.    Isn't  it  right?" 

"Right?    The  food  is  impossible." 

"He  came  from  the  club." 

"Send  him  back,"  ordered  Anthony.    And  when  Grace  ob- 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 53 

served  that  it  was  difficult  to  get  servants,  he  broke  into  a 
cold  fury.  What  had  come  over  the  world,  anyhow?  Time 
was  when  a  gentleman's  servants  stayed  with  the  family  until 
they  became  pensioners,  and  their  children  took  their  places. 
Now — ! 

Grace  said  nothing.  Her  eyes  sought  Howard's,  and 
seemed  to  find  some  comfort  there.  And  Lily,  sorry  for  her 
mother,  said  the  first  thing  that  came  into  her  head. 

"The  old  days  of  caste  are  gone,  grandfather.  And  ser 
vice,  in  your  sense  of  the  word,  went  with  them." 

"Really?"  he  eyed  her.  "Who  said  that?  Because  I  dare 
say  it  is  not  original." 

"A  man  I  knew  at  camp." 

"Whatman?" 

"His  name  was  Willy  Cameron/' 

"Willy  Cameron !  Was  this — er — person  qualified  to  speak  ? 
Does  he  know  anything  about  what  he  chooses  to  call  caste  ?" 

"He  thinks  a  lot  about  things." 

"A  little  less  thinking  and  more  working  wouldn't  hurt 
the  country  any,"  observed  old  Anthony.  He  bent  forward. 
"As  my  granddaughter,  and  the  last  of  the  Cardews,"  he 
said,  "I  have  a  certain  interest  in  the  sources  of  your  polit 
ical  opinions.  They  will  probably,  like  your  father's,  differ 
from  mine.  You  may  not  know  that  your  father  has  not 
only  opinions,  but  ambitions."  She  saw  Grace  stiffen,  and 
Howard's  warning  glance  at  her.  But  she  saw,  too,  the  look 
in  her  mother's  eyes,  infinitely  loving  and  compassionate. 
"Dear  little  mother,"  she  thought,  "he  is  her  baby,  really. 
Not  I." 

She  felt  a  vague  stirring  of  what  married  love  at  its  best 
must  be  for  a  woman,  its  strange  complex  of  passion  and 
maternity.  She  wondered  if  it  would  ever  come  to  her.  She 
rather  thought  not.  But  she  was  also  conscious  of  a  new 
attitude  among  the  three  at  the  table,  her  mother's  tense 
watchfulness,  her  father's  slightly  squared  shoulders,  and 
across  from  her  her  grandfather,  fingering  the  stem  of  his 
wineglass  and  faintly  smiling. 


54 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

"It's  time  somebody  went  into  city  politics  for  some  pur 
pose  other  than  graft,"  said  Howard.  "I  am  going  to  run  for 
mayor,  Lily.  I  probably  won't  get  it." 

"You  can  see,"  said  old  Anthony,  "why  I  am  interested 
in  your  views,  or  perhaps  I  should  say,  in  Willy  Cameron's. 
Does  your  father's  passion  for  uplift,  for  instance,  extend 
to  you?" 

"Why  won't  you  be  elected,  father  ?" 

"Partly  because  my  name  is  Cardew." 

Old  Anthony  chuckled. 

"What!"  he  exclaimed,  "after  the  bath-house  and  gym 
nasium  you  have  built  at  the  mill?  And  the  laundries  for 
the  women — which  I  believe  they  do  not  use.  Surely,  How 
ard,  you  would  not  accuse  the  dear  people  of  ingratitude?" 

"They  are  beginning  to  use  them,  sir."  Howard,  in  his  for 
ties,  still  addressed  his  father  as  "Sir !" 

"Then  you  admit  your  defeat  beforehand." 

"You  are  rather  a  formidable  antagonist." 

"Antagonist!"  Anthony  repeated  in  mock  protest.  "I  am 
a  quiet  onlooker  at  the  game.  I  am  amused,  naturally.  You 
must  understand,"  he  said  to  Lily,  "that  this  is  a  matter  of  a 
principle  with  your  father.  He  believes  that  he  should  serve. 
My  whole  contention  is  that  the  people  don't  want  to 
be  served.  They  want  to  be  bossed.  They  like  it;  it's  all  they 
know.  And  they're  suspicious  of  a  man  who  puts  his  hand 
into  his  own  pocket  instead  of  into  theirs." 

He  smiled  and  sipped  his  wine. 

"Good  wine,  this,"  he  observed.  "I'm  buying  all  I  can  lay 
my  hands  on,  against  the  approaching  drought." 

Lily's  old  distrust  of  her  grandfather  revived.  Why  did 
people  sharpen  like  that  with  age  ?  Age  should  be  mellow,  like 
old  wine.  And — what  was  she  going  to  do  with  herself? 
Already  the  atmosphere  of  the  house  began  to  depress 
and  worry  her;  she  felt  a  new,  almost  violent  impatience 
with  it.  It  was  so  unnecessary. 

She  went  to  the  pipe  organ  which  filled  the  space  behind 
the  staircase,  and  played  a  little,  but  she  had  never  been  very 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 55 

proficient,  and  her  own  awkwardness  annoyed  her.  In  the 
dining  room  she  could  hear  the  men  talking,  Howard  quietly, 
his  father  in  short  staccato  barks.  She  left  the  organ  and 
wandered  into  her  mother's  morning  room,  behind  the  draw 
ing  room,  where  Grace  sat  with  the  coffee  tray  before  her. 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  going  to  be  terribly  on  your  hands,  mother," 
she  said,  "I  don't  know  what  to  do  with  myself,  so  how  can 
you  know  what  to  do  with  me?" 

"It  is  going  to  be  rather  stupid  for  you  at  first,  of  course," 
Grace  said.  "Lent,  and  then  so  many  of  the  men  are  not  at 
home.  Would  you  like  to  go  South?" 

"Why,  I've  just  come  home !" 

"We  can  have  some  luncheons,  of  course.  Just  informal 
ones.  And  there  will  be  small  dinners.  You'll  have  to  get 
some  clothes.  I  saw  Suzette  yesterday.  She  has  some  ador 
able  things." 

"I'd  love  them.  Mother,  why  doesn't  he  want  father  to 
go  into  politics?" 

Grace  hesitated. 

"He  doesn't  like  change,  for  one  thing.  But  I  don't  know 
anything  about  politics.  Suzette  says — 

"Will  he  try  to  keep  him  from  being  elected  ?" 

"He  won't  support  him.  Of  course  I  hardly  think  he  would 
oppose  him.  I  really  don't  understand  about  those  things." 

"You  mean  you  don't  understand  him.  Well,  I  do,  mother. 
He  has  run  everything,  including  father,  for  so  long — — " 

"Lily !" 

"I  must,  mother.  Why,  out  at  the  camp "  She  checked 

herself.  "All  the  papers  say  the  city  is  badly  governed,  and 
that  he  is  responsible.  And  now  he  is  going  to  fight  his  own 
son !  The  more  I  think  about  it,  the  more  I  understand  about 
Aunt  Elinor.  Mother,  where  do  they  live  ?" 

Grace  looked  apprehensively  toward  the  door. 

"You  are  not  allowed  to  visit  her." 

"You  do." 

"That's  different.    And  I  only  go  once  or  twice  a  year." 


56 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

"Just  because  she  married  a  poor  man,  a  man  whose  fa 
ther " 

"Not  at  all.  That  is  all  dead  and  buried.  He  is  a  very 
dangerous  man.  He  is  running  a  Socialist  newspaper,  and 
now  he  is  inciting  the  mill  men  to  strike.  He  is  preaching 
terrible  things.  I  haven't  been  there  for  months." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  terrible  things,  mother?" 

"Your  father  says  it  amounts  to  a  revolution.  I  believe  he 
calls  it  a  general  strike.  I  don't  really  know  much  about  it." 

Lily  pondered  that. 

"Socialism  isn't  revolution,  mother,  is  it?  But  even  then — 
is  all  this  because  grandfather  drove  his  father  to " 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't,  Lily.  Of  course  it  is  not  that.  I 
daresay  he  believes  what  he  preaches.  He  ought  to  be  put 
into  jail.  Why  the  country  lets  such  men  go  around,  preach 
ing  sedition,  I  don't  understand." 

Lily  remembered  something  else  Willy  Cameron  had  said, 
and  promptly  repeated  it. 

"We  had  a  muzzled  press  during  the  war,"  she  said,  "and 
now  we've  got  free  speech.  And  one's  as  bad  as  the  other. 
She  must  love  him  terribly,  mother,"  she  added. 

But  Grace  harked  back  to  Suzette,  and  the  last  of  the  Car- 
dews  harked  with  her.  Later  on  people  dropped  in,  and  Lily 
made  a  real  attempt  to  get  back  into  her  old  groove,  but  that 
night,  when  she  went  upstairs  to  her  bedroom,  with  its  bright 
fire,  its  bed  neatly  turned  down,  her  dressing  gown  and  slip 
pers  laid  out,  the  shaded  lamps  shining  on  the  gold  and  ivory 
of  her  dressing  table,  she  was  conscious  of  a  sudden  home 
sickness.  Homesickness  for  her  bare  little  room  in  the  camp 
barracks,  for  other  young  lives,  noisy,  chattering,  often  rather 
silly,  occasionally  unpleasant,  but  young.  Radiantly,  vitally 
young.  The  great  house,  with  its  stillness  and  decorum,  op 
pressed  her.  There  was  no  youth  in  it,  save  hers. 

She  went  to  her  window  and  looked  out.  Years  ago,  like 
Elinor,  she  had  watched  the  penitentiary  walls  from  that  win 
dow,  with  their  endlessly  pacing  sentries,  and  had  grieved  for 
those  men  who  might  look  up  at  the  sky,  or  down  at  the  earth, 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 57 

but  never  out  and  across,  to  see  the  spring  trees,  for  instance, 
or  the  children  playing  on  the  grass.  She  remembered  the 
story  about  Jim  Doyle's  escape,  too.  He  had  dug  a  perilous 
way  to  freedom.  Vaguely  she  wondered  if  he  were  not  again 
digging  a  perilous  way  to  freedom. 

Men  seemed  always  to  be  wanting  freedom,  only  they  had 
so  many  different  ideas  of  what  freedom  was.  At  the  camp 
it  had  meant  breaking  bounds,  balking  the  Military  Police, 
doing  forbidden  things  generally.  Was  that,  after  all,  what 
freedom  meant,  to  do  the  forbidden  thing?  Those  people 
in  Russia,  for  instance,  who  stole  and  burned  and  appro 
priated  women,  in  the  name  of  freedom.  Were  law  and  or 
der,  then,  irreconcilable  with  freedom? 

After  she  had  undressed  she  rang  her  bell,  and  Castle 
answered  it. 

"Please  find  out  if  Ellen  has  gone  to  bed,"  she  said.  "If  she 
has  not,  I  would  like  to  talk  to  her." 

The  maid  looked  slightly  surprised. 

"If  it's  your  hair,  Miss  Lily,  Mrs.  Cardew  has  asked  me 
to  look  after  you  until  she  has  engaged  a  maid  for  you." 

"Not  my  hair,"  said  Lily,  cheerfully.  "I  rather  like  doing 
it  myself.  I  just  want  to  talk  to  Ellen." 

It  was  a  bewildered  and  rather  scandalized  Castle  who 
conveyed  the  message  to  Ellen. 


CHAPTER  VII  v 

I  WISH  you'd  stop  whistling  that  thing/'  said  Miss  Boyd, 
irritably.    "It  makes  me  low  in  my  mind/' 

"Sorry,"  said  Willy  Cameron.  "I  do  it  because  I'm  low 
in  my  mind." 

"What  are  you  low  about?"  Miss  Boyd  had  turned  to 
ward  the  rear  of  the  counter,  where  a  mirror  was  pasted  to 
a  card  above  a  box  of  chewing  gum,  and  was  carefully  ad 
justing  her  hair  net.  "Lady  friend  turned  you  down  ?" 

Willy  Cameron  glanced  at  her. 

"I'm  low  because  I  haven't  got  a  lady  friend,  Miss  Boyd." 
He  held  up  a  sheet  of  prescription  paper  and  squinted  at  it. 
"Also  because  the  medical  profession  writes  with  its  feet,  ap 
parently.  I've  done  everything  to  this  but  dip  it  in  acid. 
I've  had  it  pinned  to  the  wall,  and  tried  glancing  at  it  as 
I  went  past.  Sometimes  you  can  surprise  them  that  way. 
But  it  does  no  good.  I'm  going  to  take  it  home  and  dream  on 
it,  like  bride's  cake." 

"They're  awful,  aren't  they?" 

"When  I  get  into  the  Legislature,"  said  Willy  Cameron, 
"I'm  going  to  have  a  bill  passed  compelling  doctors  to  use 
typewriters.  Take  this  now.  Read  upside  down,  its  horse 
liniment.  Read  right  side  up,  it's  poison.  And  it's  for  in 
ternal  use." 

"What  d'you  mean  you  haven't  got  a  lady  friend  ?" 

"The  exact  and  cruel  truth."  He  smiled  at  her,  and  had 
Miss  Boyd  been  more  discerning  she  might  have  seen  that 
the  smile  was  slightly  forced.  Also  that  his  eyes  were  some 
what  sunken  in  his  head.  Which  might,  of  course,  have  been 
due  to  too  much  political  economy  and  history,  and  the  em 
inent  divines  on  Sunday  evenings.  Miss  Boyd,  however,  was 
not  discerning,  and  moreover,  she  was  summoning  her  cour 
age  to  a  certain  point. 

58 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN  59 

"Why  don't  you  ask  me  to  go  to  the  movies  some  night?" 
she  said.  "I  like  the  movies,  and  I  get  sick  of  going  alone." 

"My  dear  child,"  observed  Willy  Cameron,  ''if  that  young 
man  in  the  sack  suit  who  comes  in  to  see  you  every  day  were 
three  inches  shorter  and  twenty  pounds  lighter,  I'd  ask  you 
this  minute." 

"Oh,  him!"  said  Miss  Boyd,  with  a  self-conscious  smile. 
"I'm  through  with  him.  He's  a  Bolshevik  !" 

"He  has  the  Bolshevist  possessive  eye,"  agreed  Willy  Cam 
eron,  readily.  "Does  he  know  you  are  through  with  him? 
Because  that's  important,  too.  You  may  know  it,  and  I  may 
know  it,  but  if  he  doesn't  know  it " 

"Why  don't  you  say  right  out  you  don't  want  to  take  me?" 

Willy  Cameron's  chivalrous  soul  was  suddenly  shocked. 
To  his  horror  he  saw  tears  in  Miss  Boyd's  eyes. 

"I'm  just  a  plain  idiot,  Miss  Edith,"  he  said.  "I  was  only 
fooling.  It  will  mean  a  lot  to  me  to  have  a  nice  girl  go  with 
me  to  the  movies,  or  anywhere  else.  We'll  make  it  to-night, 
if  that  suits  you,  and  I'll  take  a  look  through  the  neighborhood 
at  noon  and  see  what's  worth  while." 

The  Eagle  Pharmacy  was  a  small  one  in  a  quiet  neighbor 
hood.  During  the  entire  day,  and  for  three  evenings  a  week, 
Mr.  William  Wallace  Cameron  ran  it  almost  single-handed, 
having  only  the  preoccupied  assistance  of  Miss  Boyd  in  the 
candy  and  fancy  goods.  At  the  noon  and  dinner  hours,  and 
four  evenings  a  week,  he  was  relieved  by  the  owner,  Mr. 
Davis,  a  tired  little  man  with  large  projecting  ears  and  wor 
ried,  child-like  eyes,  who  was  nursing  an  invalid  wife  at  home. 
A  pathetic  little  man,  carrying  home  with  unbounded  faith 
day  after  day  bottles  of  liquid  foods  and  beef  capsules,  and 
making  wistful  comments  on  them  when  he  returned. 

"She  couldn't  seem  to  keep  that  last  stuff  down,  Mr.  Cam 
eron,"  he  would  say.  "I'll  try  something  else." 

And  he  would^  stand  before  his  shelves,  eyes  upturned, 
searching,  eliminating,  choosing. 

Miss  Boyd  attended  to  the  general  merchandise,  sold  sta 
tionery  and  perfumes,  candy  and  fancy  soaps,  and  in  the  in- 


60  A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

tervals  surveyed  the  world  that  lay  beyond  the  plate  glass  win 
dows  with  shrewd,  sophisticated  young  eyes. 

"That  new  doctor  across  the  street  is  getting  busier,"  she 
would  say.  Or,  "The  people  in  42  have  got  a  Ford.  They 
haven't  got  room  for  a  garage,  either.  Probably  have  to  leave 
it  out  at  nights." 

Her  sophistication  was  kindly  in  the  main.  She  combined 
it  with  an  easy  tolerance  of  weakness,  and  an  invincible  and 
cheery  romanticism,  as  Willy  Cameron  discovered  the  night 
they  first  went  to  a  moving  picture  theater  together.  She 
frankly  wept  and  joyously  laughed,  and  now  and  then,  de 
lighted  at  catching  some  film  subtlety  and  fearful  that  he  would 
miss  it,  she  would  nudge  him  with  her  elbow. 

"What  d'you  think  of  that?"  she  would  say.  "D'you  get 
it?  He  thinks  he's  getting  her — Alice  Joyce,  you  know — on 
the  telephone,  and  it's  a  private  wire  to  the  gang."  She  was 
rather  quiet  after  that  particular  speech.  Then  she  added: 
"I  know  a  place  that's  got  a  secret  telephone."  But  he  was 
absorbed  in  the  picture,  and  made  no  comment  on  that.  She 
seemed  rather  relieved. 

Once  or  twice  she  placed  an  excited  hand  on  his  knee.  He 
was  very  uncomfortable  until  she  removed  it,  because  he  had 
a  helpless  sort  of  impression  that  she  was  not  quite  so  uncon 
scious  of  it  as  she  appeared.  Time  had  been,  and  not  so 
long  ago,  when  he  might  have  reciprocated  her  little  advance 
in  the  spirit  in  which  it  was  offered,  might  have  taken  the 
hand  and  held  it,  out  of  the  sheer  joy  of  youth  and  proximity. 
But  there  was  nothing  of  the  philanderer  in  the  Willy  Cam 
eron  who  sat  beside  Edith  Boyd  that  night  in  body,  while 
in  spirit  he  was  in  another  state,  walking  with  his  slight  limp 
over  crisp  snow  and  sodden  mud,  but  through  magic  lands, 
to  the  little  moving  picture  theater  at  the  camp. 

Would  he  ever  see  her  again?  Ever  again?  And  if  he 
did,  what  good  would  it  be?  He  roused  himself  when  they 
started  toward  her  home.  The  girl  was  chattering  happily. 
She  adored  Douglas  Fairbanks.  She  knew  a  girl  who  had 
written  for  his  picture  but  who  didn't  get  one.  She  wouldn't 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN (n 

do  a  thing  like  that.     "Did  they  really  say  things  when  they 
moved  their  lips?" 

"I  think  they  do,"  said  Willy  Cameron.  "When  that  chap 
was  talking  over  the  telephone  I  could  tell  what  he  was  say 
ing  by —  Look  here,  what  did  you  mean  when  you  said  you 
knew  of  a  place  that  has  a  secret  telephone?" 

"I  was  only  talking." 

"No  house  has  any  business  with  a  secret  telephone,"  he 
said  virtuously. 

"Oh,  forget  it.    I  say  a  lot  of  things  I  don't  mean." 

He  was  a  little  puzzled  and  rather  curious,  but  not  at  all 
disturbed. 

"Well,  how  did  you  get  to  know  about  it  ?" 

"I  tell  you  I  was  only  talking." 

He  let  it  drop  at  that.  The  street  crowds  held  and  inter 
ested  him.  He  liked  to  speculate  about  them ;  what  life  meant 
to  them,  in  work  and  love  and  play ;  to  what  they  were  going 
on  such  hurrying  feet.  A  country  boy,  the  haste  of  the  city 
impressed  him. 

"Why  do  they  hurry  so?"  he  demanded,  almost  irritably. 

"Hurrying  home,  most  of  them,  because  they've  got  to  get 
up  in  the  morning  and  go  to  work." 

"Do  you  ever  wonder  about  the  homes  they  are  hurrying 
to?" 

"Me?  I  don't  wonder.  I  know.  Most  of  them  have  to 
move  fast  to  keep  up  with  the  rent." 

"I  don't  mean  houses,"  he  explained,  patiently.  "I  mean 

A  house  isn't  a  home." 

"You  bet  it  isn't." 

"It's  the  families  I'm  talking  about.  In  a  small  town  you 
know  all  about  people,  who  they  live  with,  and  all  that." 
He  was  laboriously  talking  down  to  her.  "But  here " 

He  saw  that  she  was  not  interested.    Something  he  had  said 

started  an  unpleasant  train  of  thought  in  her  mind.     She  was 

walking  faster,  and  frowning  slightly.    To  cheer  her  he  said : 

I  am  keeping  an  eye  out  for  the  large  young  man  in  the 


62 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

sack  suit,  you  know.  If  he  jumps  me,  just  yell  for  the  police, 
will  you?  Because  I'll  probably  not  be  able  to." 

"I  wish  you'd  let  me  forget  him." 

"I  will.  The  question  is,  will  he?"  But  he  saw  that  the 
subject  was  unpleasant. 

"We'll  have  to  do  this  again.  It's  been  mighty  nice  of 
you  to  come." 

"You'll  have  to  ask  me,  the  next  time." 

tfl  certainly  will.  But  I  think  I'd  better  let  your  family 
look  me  over  first,  just  so  they'll  know  that  I  don't  custom 
arily  steal  the  silver  spoons  when  I'm  asked  out  to  dinner.  Or 
anything  like  that." 

"We're  just— folks." 

"So  am  I,  awfully — folks !  And  pretty  lonely  folks  at  that. 
Something  like  that  pup  that  has  adopted  me,  only  worse. 
He's  got  me,  but  I  haven't  anybody." 

"You'll  not  be  lonely  long."     She  glanced  up  at  him. 

"That's  cheering.    Whjr?" 

"Well,  you  are  the  sort  that  makes  friends,"  she  said,  rather 
vaguely.  "That  crowd  that  drops  into  the  shop  on  the  even 
ings  you're  there — they're  crazy  about  you.  They  like  to 
hear  you  talk." 

"Great  Scott!  I  suppose  I've  been  orating  all  over  the 
place!" 

"No,  but  you've  got  ideas.  You  give  them  something  to 
think  about  when  they  go  home.  I  wish  I  had  a  mind  like 
yours." 

He  was  so  astonished  that  he  stopped  dead  on  the  pave 
ment.  "My  Scottish  blood,"  he  said  despondently.  "A  Scot 
is  always  a  reformer  and  a  preacher,  in  his  heart.  I  used  to 
orate  to  my  mother,  but  she  liked  it.  She  is  a  Scot,  too. 
Besides,  it  put  her  to  sleep.  But  I  thought  I'd  outgrown  it." 

"You  don't  make  speeches.     I  didn't  mean  that." 

But  he  was  very  crestfallen  during  the  remainder  of  the 
way,  and  rather  silent.  He  wondered,  that  night  before  he 
went  to  bed,  if  he  had  been  didactic  to  Lily  Cardew.  He  had 
aired  his  opinions  to  her  at  length,  he  knew.  He  groaned  as 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 63 

he  took  off  his  coat  in  his  cold  little  room  at  the  boarding 
house  which  lodged  and  fed  him,  both  indifferently,  for  the 
sum  of  twelve  dollars  per  week. 

Jinx,  the  little  hybrid  dog,  occupied  the  seat  of  his  one  com 
fortable  chair.  He  eyed  the  animal  somberly. 

"Hereafter,  old  man,"  he  said,  "when  I  feel  a  spell  of  or 
atory  coming  on,  you  will  have  to  be  the  audience."  He  took 
his  dressing  gown  from  a  nail  behind  the  door,  and  com 
menced  to  put  it  on.  Then  he  took  it  off  again  and  wrapped 
the  dog  in  it. 

"I  can  read  in  bed,  which  you  can't,"  he  observed.  "Only, 
I  can't  help  thinking,  with  all  this  town  to  pick  from,  you 
might  have  chosen  a  fellow  with  two  dressing  gowns  and  two 
chairs." 

He  was  extremely  quiet  ail  the  next  day.  Miss  Boyd  could 
hear  him,  behind  the  partition  with  its  "Please  Keep  Out" 
sign,  fussing  with  bottles  and  occasionally  whistling  to  himself. 
Once  it  was  the  Long,  Long  Trail,  and  a  moment  later  he  ap 
peared  in  his  doorway,  grinning. 

"Sorry,"  he  said.  'Tve  got  in  the  habit  of  thinking  to  the 
fool  thing.  Won't  do  it  again." 

"You  must  be  thinking  hard." 

"I  am,"  he  replied,  grimly,  and  disappeared.  She  could 
hear  the  slight  unevenness  of  his  steps  as  he  moved  about, 
but  there  was  no  more  whistling.  Edith  Boyd  leaned  both 
elbows  on  the  top  of  a  showcase  and  fell  into  a  profound  and 
troubled  thought.  Mostly  her  thoughts  were  of  Willy  Cam 
eron,  but  some  of  them  were  for  herself.  Up  dreary  and  sor 
did  by-paths  her  mind  wandered ;  she  was  facing  ugly  facts 
for  the  first  time,  and  a  little  shudder  of  disgust  shook  her. 
He  wanted  to  meet  her  family.  He  was  a  gentleman  and  he 
wanted  to  meet  her  family.  Well,  he  could  meet  them  all 
right,  and  maybe  he  would  understand  then  that  she  had 
never  had  a  chance.  In  all  her  young  life  no  man  had  ever 
proposed  letting  her  family  look  him  over.  Hardly  ever  had 
they  visited  her  at  home,  and  when  they  did  they  seemed  al- 


64 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

ways  glad  to  get  away.  She  had  met  them  on  street  cor 
ners,  and  slipped  back  alone,  fearful  of  every  creak  of  the 
old  staircase,  and  her  mother's  querulous  voice  calling  to  her : 

"Edie,  where've  you  been  all  this  time?"  And  she  had 
lied.  How  she  had  lied ! 

"I'm  through  with  all  that,"  she  resolved.  "It  wasn't  any 
fun  anyhow.  I'm  sick  of  hating  myself." 

Some  time  later  Willy  Cameron  heard  the  telephone  ring, 
and  taking  pad  and  pencil  started  forward.  But  Miss  Boyd 
was  at  the  telephone,  conducting  a  personal  conversation. 

"No.  .  .  .  No,  I  think  not.  .  .  .  Look  here,  Lou,  I've  said 
no  twice." 

There  was  a  rather  lengthy  silence  while  she  listened.  Then : 
"You  might  as  well  have  it  straight,  Lou.  I'm  through.  .  .  . 

No,  I'm  not  sick.  I'm  just  through I  wouldn't 

What's  the  use?" 

Willy  Cameron,  retreating  into  his  lair,  was  unhappily 
conscious  that  the  girl  was  on  the  verge  of  tears.  He  puz 
zled  over  the  situation  for  some  time.  His  immediate  in 
stinct  was  to  help  any  troubled  creature,  and  it  had  dawned 
on  him  that  this  composed  young  lady  who  manicured  her 
nails  out  of  a  pasteboard  box  during  the  slack  portion  of  every 
day  was  troubled.  In  his  abstraction  he  commenced  again 
his  melancholy  refrain,  and  a  moment  later  she  appeared  in 
the  doorway: 

"Oh,  for  mercy's  sake,  stop,"  she  said.    She  was  very  pale. 

"Look  here,  Miss  Edith,  you  come  in  here  and  tell  me 
what's  wrong.  Here's  a  chair.  Now  sit  down  and  talk  it 
out.  It  helps  a  lot  to  get  things  off  your  chest." 

"There's  nothing  the  matter  with  me.  And  if  the  boss 
comes  in  here  and  finds  me " 

Quite  suddenly  she  put  her  head  down  on  the  back  of  the 
chair  and  began  to  cry.  He  was  frightfully  distressed.  He 
poured  some  aromatic  ammonia  into  a  medicine  glass  and 
picking  up  her  limp  hand,  closed  her  fingers  around  it. 

"Drink  that,"  he  ordered. 

She  shook  her  head. 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 65 

"I'm  not  sick,"  she  said.    'I'm  only  a  fool." 

"If  that  fellow  said  anything  over  the  telephone !" 

She  looked  up  drearily. 

"It  wasn't  him.  He  doesn't  matter.  It's  just — I  got  to  hat 
ing  myself."  She  stood  up  and  carefully  dabbed  her  eyes. 
"Heavens,  I  must  be  a  sight.  Now  don't  you  get  to  thinking 
things,  Mr.  Cameron.  Girls  can't  go  out  and  fight  off  a  tem 
per,  or  get  full  and  sleep  it  off.  So  they  cry." 

Some  time  later  he  glanced  out  at  her.  She  was  stand 
ing  before  the  little  mirror  above  the  chewing  gum,  carefully 
rubbing  her  cheeks  with  a  small  red  pad.  After  that  she 
reached  into  the  show  case,  got  out  a  lip  pencil  and  touched 
her  lips. 

"You're  pretty  enough  without  all  that,  Miss  Edith." 

"You  mind  your  own  business,"  she  retorted  acidly. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

LILY  had  known  Alston  Denslow  most  of  her  life.  The  chil 
dren  of  that  group  of  families  which  formed  the  monied 
aristocracy  of  the  city  knew  only  their  own  small  circle.  They 
met  at  dancing  classes,  where  governesses  and  occasionally 
mothers  sat  around  the  walls,  while  the  little  girls,  in  hand 
made  white  frocks  of  exquisite  simplicity,  their  shining  hair 
drawn  back  and  held  by  ribbon  bows,  made  their  prim  lit 
tle  dip  at  the  door  before  entering,  and  the  boys,  in  white 
Eton  collars  and  gleaming  pumps,  bowed  from  the  waist 
and  then  dived  for  the  masculine  corner  of  the  long  room. 

No  little  girl  ever  intruded  on  that  corner,  although  now 
and  then  a  brave  spirit  among  the  boys  would  wander,  with 
assumed  unconsciousness  but  ears  rather  pink,  to  the  op 
posite  corner  where  the  little  girls  were  grouped  like  white' 
butterflies  milling  in  the  sun. 

The  pianist  struck  a  chord,  and  the  children  lined  up,  the 
girls  on  one  side,  the  boys  on  the  other,  a  long  line,  with  Mrs. 
Van  Buren  in  the  center.  Another  chord,  rather  a  long  one. 
Mrs.  Van  Buren  curtsied  to  the  girls.  The  line  dipped,  wav 
ered,  recovered  itself.  Mrs.  Van  Buren  turned.  Another 
chord.  The  boys  bent,  rather  too  much,  from  the  waist,  while 
Mrs.  Van  Buren  swept  another  deep  curtsey.  The  music 
now,  very  definite  as  to  time.  Glide  and  short  step  to  the 
right.  Glide  and  short  step  to  the  left.  Dancing  school  had 
commenced.  Outside  were  long  lines  of  motors  waiting.  The 
governesses  chatted,  and  sometimes  embroidered.  Made 
moiselle  tatted. 

Alton  Denslow  was  generally  known  as  Pink,  but  the  origin 
of  the  name  was  shrouded  in  mystery.  As  "Pink"  he  had 
learned  to  waltz  at  the  dancing  class,  at  a  time  when  he  was 
more  attentive  to  the  step  than  to  the  music  that  accompan 
ied  it.  As  Pink  Denslow  he  had  played  on  a  scrub  team  at 

66 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 67 

Harvard,  and  got  two  broken  ribs  for  his  trouble,  and  as 
Pink  he  now  paid  intermittent  visits  to  the  Denslow  Bank, 
between  the  hunting  season  in  October  and  polo  at  eastern 
fields  and  in  California.  At  twenty- three  he  was  still  the  boy 
of  the  dancing  class,  very  careful  at  parties  to  ask  his  hostess 
to  dance,  and  not  noticeably  upset  when  she  did,  having  ar 
ranged  to  be  cut  in  on  at  the  end  of  the  second  round. 

Pink  could  not  remember  when  he  had  not  been  in  love 
with  Lily  Cardew.  There  had  been  other  girls,  of  course, 
times  when  Lily  seemed  far  away  from  Cambridge,  and  some 
other  fair  charmer  was  near.  But  he  had  always  known  there 
was  only  Lily.  Once  or  twice  he  would  have  become  en 
gaged,  had  it  not  been  for  that.  He  was  a  blond  boy,  square 
ly  built,  good-looking  without  being  handsome,  and  on  rainy 
Sundays  when  there  was  no  golf  he  went  quite  cheerfully  to 
St.  Peter's  with  his  mother,  and  watched  a  pretty  girl  in  the 
choir. 

He  wished  at  those  times  that  he  could  sing. 

A  pleasant  cumberer  of  the  earth,  he  had  wrapped  his  tal 
ents  in  a  napkin  and  buried  them  by  the  wayside,  and  prompt 
ly  forgotten  where  they  were.  He  was  to  find  them  later 
on,  however,  not  particularly  rusty,  and  he  increased  them 
rather  considerably  before  he  got  through. 

It  was  this  pleasant  cumberer  of  the  earth,  then,  who  on 
the  morning  after  Lily's  return,  stopped  his  car  before  the  Car- 
dew  house  and  got  out.  Immediately  following  his  descent 
he  turned,  took  a  square  white  box  from  the  car,  ascended 
the  steps,  settled  his  neck  in  his  collar  and  his  tie  around  it, 
and  rang  the  bell. 

The  second  man,  hastily  buttoned  into  his  coat  and  with  a 
faint  odor  of  silver  polish  about  him,  opened  the  door.  Pink 
gave  him  his  hat,  but  retained  the  box  firmly. 

"Mrs.  Cardew  and  Miss  Cardew  at  home?"  he  asked. 
"Yes?  Then  you  might  tell  Grayson  I'm  here  to  luncheon — 
unless  the  family  is  lunching  out." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  footman.  "No,  sir,  they  are  lunching 
at  home." 


68 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

Pink  sauntered  into  the  library.  He  was  not  so  easy  as 
his  manner  indicated.  One  never  knew  about  Lily.  Some 
times  she  was  in  a  mood  when  she  seemed  to  think  a  man 
funny,  and  not  to  be  taken  seriously.  And  when  she  was 
serious,  which  was  the  way  he  liked  her — he  rather  lacked 
humor — she  was  never  serious  about  him  or  herself.  It  had 
been  religion  once,  he  remembered.  She  had  wanted  to  know 
if  he  believed  in  the  thirty-nine  articles,  and  because  he  had 
seen  them  in  the  back  of  the  prayer-book,  where  they  cer 
tainly  would  not  be  if  there  was  not  authority  for  them,  he  had 
said  he  did. 

"Well,  I  don't,"  said  Lily.  And  there  had  been  rather  a  bad 
half-hour,  because  he  had  felt  that  he  had  to  stick  to  his  thirty- 
nine  guns,  whatever  they  were.  He  had  finished  on  a  rather 
desperate  note  of  appeal. 

"See  here,  Lily,"  he  had  said.  "Why  do  you  bother  your 
head  about  such  things,  anyhow  ?" 

"Because  I've  got  a  head,  and  I  want  to  use  it." 

"Life's  too  short." 

"Eternity's  pretty  long.  Do  you  believe  in  eternity?"  And 
there  they  were,  off  again,  and  of  course  old  Anthony  had 
come  in  after  that,  and  had  wanted  to  know  about  his  Aunt 
Marcia,  and  otherwise  had  shown  every  indication  of  taking 
root  on  the  hearth  rug. 

Pink  was  afraid  of  Anthony.  He  felt  like  a  stammering 
fool  when  Anthony  was  around.  That  was  why  he  had  invited 
himself  to  luncheon.  Old  Anthony  lunched  at  his  club. 

When  he  heard  Lily  coming  down  the  stairs,  Pink's  hon 
est  heart  beat  somewhat  faster.  A  good  many  times  in 
France,  but  particularly  on  the  ship  coming  back,  he  had 
thought  about  this  meeting.  In  France  a  fellow  had  a  lot  of 
distractions,  and  Lily  had  seemed  as  dear  as  ever,  but  ex 
tremely  remote.  But  once  turned  toward  home,  and  she  had 
filled  the  entire  western  horizon.  The  other  men  had  seen 
sunsets  there,  and  sometimes  a  ship,  or  a  school  of  porpoises. 
But  Pink  had  seen  only  Lily. 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 69 

She  came  in.  The  dear  old  girl!  The  beautiful,  wonder 
ful,  dear  old  girl !  The 

"Pick!" 

"H— hello,  Lily." 

"Why,  Pink— you're  a  man !" 

"What'd  you  think  I'd  be?    A  girl?" 

"You've  grown." 

"Oh,  now  see  here,  Lily.    I  quit  growing  years  ago." 

"And  to  think  you  are  back  all  right.  I  was  so  worried, 
Pink." 

He  flushed  at  that. 

"Needn't  have  worried,"  he  said,  rather  thickly.  "Didn't 
get  to  the  front  until  just  before  the  end.  My  show  was 
made  a  labor  division  in  the  south  of  France.  If  you  laugh, 
I'll  take  my  flowers  and  go  home." 

''Why,  Pink  dear,  I  wouldn't  laugh  for  anything.  And  it 
was  the  man  behind  the  lines  who •" 

"Won  the  war,"  he  finished  for  her,  rather  grimly.  "All 
right,  Lily.  We've  heard  it  before.  Anyhow,  it's  all  done 
and  over,  and — I  brought  gardenias  and  violets.  You  used  to 
like  'em." 

"It  was  dear  of  you  to  remember." 

"Couldn't  help  remembering.  No  credit  to  me.  I — you 
were  always  in  my  mind." 

She  was  busily  unwrapping  the  box. 

"Always,"  he  repeated,  unsteadily. 

"What  gorgeous  things!"  she  buried  her  face  in  them. 

"Did  you  hear  what  I  said,  Lily?" 

"Yes,  and  it's  sweet  of  you.  Now  sit  down  and  tell  me 
about  things.  I've  got  a  lot  to  tell  you,  too." 

He  had  a  sort  of  quiet  obstinacy,  however,  and  he  did  not 
sit  down.  When  she  had  done  so  he  stood  in  front  of  her, 
looking  down  at  her. 

"You've  been  in  a  camp.  I  know  that.  I  heard  it  over 
there.  Anne  Devereaux  wrote  me.  It  worried  me  because — 
we  had  girls  in  the  camps  over  there,  and  every  one  of  them 
had  a  string  of  suitors  a  mile  long." 


TO A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

"Well,  I  didn't,"  said  Lily,  spiritedly.  Then  she  laughed. 
He  had  been  afraid  she  would  laugh.  "Oh,  Pink,  how  dear 
and  funny  and  masculine  you  are!  I  have  a  perfectly  un 
controllable  desire  to  kiss  you." 

Which  she  did,  to  his  amazement  and  consternation.  Noth 
ing  she  could  have  done  would  more  effectually  have  shown 
him  the  hopelessness  of  his  situation  than  that  sisterly  im 
pulse. 

"Good  Lord,"  he  gasped,  "Grayson's  in  the  hall." 

"If  he  comes  in  I  shall  probably  do  it  again.  Pink,  you 
darling  child,  you  are  still  the  little  boy  at  Mrs.  Van  Buren's 
and  if  you  would  only  purse  your  lips  and  count  one — two — - 
three — Are  you  staying  to  luncheon  ?" 

He  was  suffering  terribly.  Also  he  felt  strangely  empty 
inside,  because  something  that  he  had  carried  around  with 
him  for  a  long  time  seemed  to  have  suddenly  moved  out  and 
left  a  vacancy. 

"Thanks.    I  think  not,  Lily ;  I've  got  a  lot  to  do  to-day." 

She  sat  very  still.  She  had  had  to  do  it,  had  had  to  show 
him,  somehow,  that  she  loved  him  without  loving  him  as  he 
wanted  her  to.  She  had  acted  on  impulse,  on  an  impulse 
born  of  intention,  but  she  had  hurt  him.  It  was  in  every  line 
of  his  rigid  body  and  set  face. 

"You're  not  angry,  Pink  dear?" 

''There's  nothing  to  be  angry  about/'  he  said,  stolidly. 
'Things  have  been  going  on,  with  me,  and  staying  where 
they've  always  been,  with  you.  That's  all.  I'm  not  very 
keen,  you  know,  and  I  used  to  think — Your  people  like  me. 
I  mean,  they  -wouldn't " 

"Everybody  likes  you,  Pink." 

"Well,  I'll  trot  along."  He  moved  a  step,  hesitated.  "Is 
there  anybody  else,  Lily  ?" 

"Nobody." 

"You  won't  mind  if  I  hang  around  a  bit,  then?  You  can 
always  send  me  off  when  you  are  sick  of  me.  Which  you 
couldn't  if  you  were  fool  enough  to  marry  me." 

"Whoever  does  marry  you,  dear,  will  be  a  lucky  woman." 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 


In  the  end  he  stayed  to  luncheon,  and  managed  to  eat  a 
very  fair  one.  But  he  had  little  lapses  into  silence,  and  Grace 
Cardew  drew  her  own  shrewd  conclusions. 

"He's  such  a  nice  boy,  Lily,"  she  said,  after  he  had  gone. 
"And  your  grandfather  would  like  it.  In  a  way  I  think  he 
expects  it." 

"I 'hi  not  going  to  marry  to  please  him,  mother." 

"But  you  are  fond  of  Alston." 

"I  want  to  marry  a  man,  mother.  Pink  is  a  boy.  He  will 
always  be  a  boy.  He  doesn't  think;  he  just  feels.  He  is 
fine  and  loyal  and  honest,  but  I  would  loathe  him  in  a  month." 

"I  wish,"  said  Grace  Cardew  unhappily,  "I  wish  you  had 
never  gone  to  that  camp." 

All  afternoon  Lily  and  Grace  shopped.  Lily  was  fitted  into 
shining  evening  gowns,  into  bright  little  afternoon  frocks,  into 
Paris  wraps.  The  Cardew  name  was  whispered  through  the 
shops,  and  great  piles  of  exotic  things  were  brought  in  for 
Grace's  critical  eye.  Lily's  own  attitude  was  joyously  care 
free.  Long  lines  of  models  walked  by,  draped  in  furs,  in  sat 
ins  and  velvet  and  chiffon,  tall  girls,  most  of  them,  with  hair 
carefully  dressed,  faces  delicately  tinted  and  that  curious  for 
ward  thrust  at  the  waist  and  slight  advancement  of  one  shoul 
der  that  gave  them  an  air  of  languorous  indifference. 

"The  only  way  I  could  get  that  twist,"  Lily  confided  to  her 
mother,  "would  be  to  stand  that  way  and  be  done  up  in 
plaster  of  paris.  It  is  the  most  abandoned  thing  I  ever  saw." 

Grace  was  shocked,  and  said  so. 

Sometimes,  during  the  few  hours  since  her  arrival,  Lily  had 
wondered  if  her  year's  experiences  had  coarsened  her.  There 
were  so  many  times  when  her  mother  raised  her  eye 
brows.  She  knew  that  she  had  changed,  that  the  grand 
daughter  of  old  Anthony  Cardew  who  had  come  back  from 
the  war  was  not  the  girl  who  had  gone  away.  She  had  gone 
away  amazingly  ignorant;  what  little  she  had  known  of  life 
she  had  learned  away  at  school.  But  even  there  she  had  not 
realized  the  possibility  of  wickedness  and  vice  in  the  world. 
One  of  the  girls  had  run  away  with  a  music  master  who 


72 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

was  married,  and  her  name  was  forbidden  to  be  mentioned. 
That  was  wickedness,  like  blasphemy,  and  a  crime  against 
the  Holy  Ghost. 

She  had  never  heard  of  prostitution.  Near  the  camp  there 
was  a  district  with  a  bad  name,  and  the  girls  of  her  organ 
ization  were  forbidden  to  so  much  as  walk  in  that  direction. 
It  took  her  a  long  time  to  understand,  and  she  suffered  hor 
ribly  when  she  did.  There  were  depths  of  wickedness,  then, 
and  of  abasement  like  that  in  the  world.  It  was  a  bad  world, 
a  cruel,  sordid  world.  She  did  not  want  to  live  in  it. 
x  She  had  had  to  reorganize  all  her  ideas  of  life  after  that. 
At  first  she  was  flamingly  indignant.  God  had  made  His 
world  clean  and  beautiful,  and  covered  it  with  flowers  and 
trees  that  grew,  cleanly  begotten,  from  the  earth.  Why  had 
He  not  stopped  there?  Why  had  He  soiled  it  with  passion 
and  lust?  , 

It  was  a  little  Red  Cross  nurse  who  helped  her,  finally. 

"Very  well,"  she  said.  "I  see  what  you  mean.  But  trees 
and  flowers  are  not  God's  most  beautiful  gift  to  the  world/' 

"I  think  they  are." 

"No.    It  is  love." 

"I  am  not  talking  about  love,"  said  Lily,  flushing. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  are.  You  have  never  loved,  have  you?  You 
are  talking  of  one  of  the  many  things  that  go  to  make  up 
love,  and  out  of  that  one  phase  of  love  comes  the  most  won 
derful  thing  in  the  world.  He  gives  us  the  child." 

And  again : 

"All  bodies  are  not  whole,  and  not  all  souls.  It  is  wrong 
to  judge  life  by  its  exceptions,  or  love  by  its  perversions,  Lily." 

It  had  been  the  little  nurse  finally  who  cured  her,  for  she 
secured  Lily's  removal  to  that  shady  house  on  a  by-street, 
where  the  tragedies  of  unwise  love  and  youth  sought  sanctu 
ary.  There  were  prayers  there,  morning  and  evening.  They 
knelt,  those  girls,  in  front  of  their  little  wooden  chairs,  and 
by  far  the  great  majority  of  them  quite  simply  laid  their 
burdens  before  God,  and  with  an  equal  simplicity,  felt  that 
He  would  help  them  out. 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 73 

"We  have  erred,  and  strayed  from  Thy  ways  like  lost  sheep. 
We  have  followed  too  much  the  devices  and  desires  of 
our  own  hearts.  We  have  offended  against  Thy  holy 
laws.  .  .  .  Restore  Thou  those  who  are  penitent,  accord 
ing  to  Thy  promises.  .  .  .  And  grant,  Oh  most  merciful 
Father,  that  we  may  hereafter  live  a  godly,  righteous  and 
sober  life." 

After  a  time  Lily  learned  something  that  helped  her.  The 
soul  was  greater  and  stronger  than  the  body  and  than  the 
mind.  The  body  failed.  It  sinned,  but  that  did  not  touch 
the  unassailable  purity  and  simplicity  of  the  soul.  The  soul, 
which  lived  on,  was  always  clean.  For  that  reason  there 
was  no  hell. 

Lily  rose  and  buttoned  her  coat.  Grace  was  fastening  her 
sables,  and  making  a  delayed  decision  in  satins. 

"Mother,  I've  been  thinking  it  over.  I  am  going  to  see 
Aunt  Elinor." 

Grace  waited  until  the  saleswoman  had  moved  away. 

"I  don't  like  it,  Lily." 

"I  was  thinking,  while  we  were  ordering  all  that  stuff. 
She  is  a  Cardew,  mother.  She  ought  to  be  having  that  sort 
of  thing.  And  just  because  grandfather  hates  her  husband, 
she  hasn't  anything." 

"That  is  rather  silly,  dear.  They  are  not  in  want.  I  be 
lieve  he  is  quite  flourishing." 

"She  is  father's  sister.  And  she  is  a  good  woman.  We 
treat  her  like  a  leper." 

Grace  was  weakening.  "If  you  take  the  car,  your  grand 
father  may  hear  of  it." 

'Til  take  a  taxi." 

Grace  followed  her  with  uneasy  eyes.  For  years  she  paid 
a  price  for  peace,  and  not  a  small  price.  She  had  placed 
her  pride  on  the  domestic  altar,  and  had  counted  it  a  worthy 
sacrifice  for  Howard's  sake.  And  she  had  succeeded.  She 
knew  Anthony  Cardew  had  never  forgiven  her  and  would 


74 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

never  like  her,  but  he  gave  her,  now  and  then,  the  tribute  of 
a  grudging  admiration. 

And  now  Lily  had  come  home,  a  new  and  different  Lily, 
with  her  father's  lovableness  and  his  father's  obstinacy.  Al 
ready  Grace  saw  in  the  girl  the  beginning  of  a  passionate  pro 
test  against  things  as  they  were.  Perhaps,  had  Grace  given 
to  Lily  the  great  love  of  her  life,  instead  of  to  Howard,  she 
might  have  understood  her  less  clearly.  As  it  was,  she  shivered 
slightly  as  she  got  into  the  limousine. 


CHAPTER  IX 

LILY  CARDEW  inspected  curiously  the  east  side  neigh 
borhood  through  which  the  taxi  was  passing.  She  knew 
vaguely  that  she  was  in  the  vicinity  of  one  of  the  Cardew 
mills,  but  she  had  never  visited  any  of  the  Cardew  plants. 
She  had  never  been  permitted  to  do  so.  Perhaps  the  neighbor 
hood  would  have  impressed  her  more  had  she  not  seen,  in  the 
camp,  that  life  can  be  stripped  sometimes  to  its  essentials, 
and  still  have  lost  very  little.  But  the  dinginess  depressed 
her.  Smoke  was  in  the  atmosphere,  like  a  heavy  fog.  Soot 
lay  on  the  window-sills,  and  mingled  with  street  dust  to 
form  little  black  whirlpools  in  the  wind.  Even  the  white 
river  steamers,  guiding  their  heavy  laden  coal  barges  with 
the  current,  were  gray  with  soft  coal  smoke.  The  foam  of 
the  river  falling  in  broken  cataracts  from  their  stern  wheels 
was  oddly  white  in  contrast. 

Everywhere  she  began  to  see  her  own  name.  "Cardew" 
was  on  the  ore  hopper  cars  that  were  moving  slowly  along  a 
railroad  spur.  One  of  the  steamers  bore  "Anthony  Cardew" 
in  tall  black  letters  on  its  side.  There  was  a  narrow  street 
called  "Cardew  Way." 

Aunt  Elinor  lived  on  Cardew  Way.  She  wondered  if  Aunt 
Elinor  found  that  curious,  as  she  did.  Did  she  resent  these 
ever-present  reminders  of  her  lost  family?  Did  she  have 
any  bitterness  because  the  very  grayness  of  her  skies  was 
making  her  hard  old  father  richer  and  more  powerful? 

Yet  there  was  comfort,  stability  and  a  certain  dignity  about 
Aunt  Elinor's  house  when  she  reached  it.  It  stood  in  the  dis 
trict,  but  not  of  it,  withdrawn  from  the  street  in  a  small  open 
space  which  gave  indication  of  being  a  flower  garden  in  sum 
mer.  There  were  two  large  gaunt  trees  on  either  side  of  ai 
brick  walk,  and  that  walk  had  been  swept  to  the  last  degree 
of  neatness.  The  steps  were  freshly  scoured,  and  a  small 

75 


76 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

brass  door-plate,  like  a  doctor's  sign,  was  as  bright  as  rub 
bing  could  make  it.  "James  Doyle,"  she  read. 

Suddenly  she  was  glad  she  had  come.  The  little  brick 
house  looked  anything  but  tragic,  with  its  shining  windows, 
its  white  curtains  and  its  evenly  drawn  shades.  Through  the 
windows  on  the  right  came  a  flickering  light,  warm  and  rosy. 
There  must  be  a  coal  fire  there.  She  loved  a  coal  fire. 

She  had  braced  herself  to  meet  Aunt  Elinor  at  the  door, 
but  an  elderly  woman  opened  it. 

"Mrs.  Doyle  is  in,"  she  said;  "just  step  inside/' 

She  did  not  ask  Lily's  name,  but  left  her  in  the  dark  lit 
tle  hall  and  creaked  up  the  stairs.  Lily  hesitated.  Then,  feel 
ing  that  Aunt  Elinor  might  not  like  to  find  her  so  uncere 
moniously  received,  she  pushed  open  a  door  which  was  only 
partly  closed,  and  made  a  step  into  the  room.  Only  then  did 
she  see  that  it  was  occupied.  A  man  sat  by  the  fire,  reading. 
He  was  holding  his  book  low,  to  get  the  light  from  the  fire, 
and  he  turned  slowly  to  glance  at  Lily.  He  had  clearly  ex 
pected  some  one  else.  Elinor,  probably. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  Lily  said.  "I  am  calling  on  Mrs. 
Doyle,  and  when  I  saw  the  firelight " 

He  stood  up  then,  a  tall,  thin  man,  with  close-cropped 
gray  mustache  and  heavy  gray  hair  above  a  high,  bulging 
forehead.  She  had  never  seen  Jim  Doyle,  but  Mademoiselle 
had  once  said  that  he  had  pointed  ears,  like  a  satyr.  She  had 
immediately  recanted,  on  finding  Lily  searching  in  a  book  for 
a  picture  of  a  satyr.  This  man  had  ears  pointed  at  the  top. 
Lily  was  too  startled  then  to  analyze  his  face,  but  later  on 
she  was  to  know  well  the  high,  intellectual  forehead,  the  keen 
sunken  eyes,  the  full  but  firmly  held  mouth  and  pointed  satyr- 
like  ears  of  that  brilliant  Irishman,  cynic  and  arch  scoundrel, 
Jim  Doyle. 

He  was  inspecting  her  intently. 

"Please  come  in,"  he  said.    "Did  the  maid  take  your  name?" 

"No.    I  am  Lily  Cardew." 

"I  see."  He  stood  quite  still,  eyeing  her.  "You  are  An 
thony's  granddaughter  ?" 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN  77 

"Yes." 

"Just  a  moment."  He  went  out,  closing  the  door  behind 
him,  and  she  heard  him  going  quickly  up  the  stairs.  A  door 
closed  above,  and  a  weight  settled  down  on  the  girl's  heart.  He 
was  not  going  to  let  her  see  Aunt  Elinor.  She  was  frightened, 
but  she  was  angry,  too.  She  wrould  not  run  away.  She  would 
wait  until  he  came  down,  and  if  he  was  insolent,  well,  she 
could  be  haughty.  She  moved  to  the  fire  and  stood  there, 
slightly  flushed,  but  very  straight. 

She  heard  him  coming  down  again  almost  immediately. 
He  was  outside  the  door.  But  he  did  not  come  in  at  once. 
She  had  a  sudden  impression  that  he  was  standing  there,  his 
hand  on  the  knob,  outlining  what  he  meant  to  say  to  her  when 
he  showed  the  door  to  a  hated  Cardew.  Afterwards  she  came 
to  know  how  right  that  impression  was.  He  was  never  spon 
taneous.  He  was  a  man  who  debated  everything,  calculated 
everything  beforehand. 

When  he  came  in  it  was  slowly,  and  with  his  head  bent,  as 
though  he  still  debated  within  himself.  Then : 

"I  think  I  have  a  right  to  ask  what  Anthony  Cardew's 
granddaughter  is  doing  in  my  house." 

"Your  wife's  niece  has  come  to  call  on  her,  Mr.  Doyle." 

"Are  you  quite  sure  that  is  all?" 

"I  assure  you  that  is  all,"  Lily  said  haughtily.  "It  had  not 
occurred  to  me  that  you  would  be  here." 

"I  dare  say.  Still,  strangely  enough,  I  do  spend  a  certain 
amount  of  time  in  my  home." 

Lily  picked  up  her  muff. 

"If  you  have  forbidden  her  to  come  down,  I  shall  go." 

"Wait,"  he  said  slowly.  "I  haven't  forbidden  her  to  see 
you.  I  asked  her  to  wait.  I  wanted  a  few  moments.  You 
see,  it  is  not  often  that  I  have  a  Cardew  in  my  house,  and  I 
am  a  selfish  man." 

She  hated  him.  She  loathed  his  cold  eyes,  his  long,  slim 
white  hands.  She  hated  him  until  he  fascinated  her. 

"Sit  down,  and  I  will  call  Mrs.  Doyle." 

He  went  out  again,  but  this  time  it  was  the  elderly  maid 


78 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

who  went  up  the  stairs.  Doyle  himself  came  back,  and  stood 
before  her  on  the  hearth  rug.  He  was  slightly  smiling,  and 
the  look  of  uncertainty  was  gone. 

"Now  that  you've  seen  me,  I'm  not  absolutely  poisonous, 
am  I,  Miss  Lily?  You  don't  mind  my  calling  you  that,  do 
you?  You  are  my  niece.  You  have  been  taught  to  hate  me, 
of  course.'* 

"Yes,"  said  Lily,  coldly. 

"By  Jove,  the  truth  from  a  Cardew!"  Then:  "That's  an 
old  habit  of  mine,  damning  the  Cardews.  I'll  have  to  try  to 
get  over  it,  if  they  are  going  to  reestablish  family  relations." 
He  was  laughing  at  her,  Lily  knew,  and  she  flushed  somewhat. 

"I  wouldn't  make  too  great  an  effort,  then,"  she  said. 

He  smiled  again,  this  time  not  unpleasantly,  and  suddenly 
he  threw  into  his  rich  Irish  voice  an  unexpected  softness.  No 
one  knew  better  than  Jim  Doyle  the  uses  of  the  human  voice. 

"You  mustn't  mind  me,  Miss  Lily.  I  have  no  reason  to  love 
your  family,  but  I  am  very  happy  that  you  came  here  to-day. 
My  wife  has  missed  her  people.  If  you'll  run  in  like  this 
now  and  then  it  will  do  her  worlds  of  good.  And  if  my  be 
ing  here  is  going  to  keep  you  away  I  can  clear  out." 

She  rather  liked  him  for  that  speech.  He  was  totally  un 
like  wliat  she  had  been  led  to  expect,  and  she  felt  a  sort  of 
resentment  toward  her  family  for  misleading  her.  He  was 
a  gentleman,  on  the  surface  at  least.  He  had  not  been  over- 
cordial  at  first,  but  then  who  could  have  expected  cordiality 
under  the  circumstances?  In  Lily's  defense  it  should  be  said 
that  the  vicissitudes  of  Elinor's  life  with  Doyle  had  been  kept 
from  her  always.  She  had  but  two  facts  to  go  on:  he  had 
beaten  her  grandfather  as  a  young  man,  for  a  cause,  and  he 
held  views  as  to  labor  which  conflicted  with  those  of  her  fam- 
ily. 

Months  later,  when  she  learned  all  the  truth,  it  was  too 
late. 

"Of  course  you're  being  here  won't  keep  me  away,  if  you 
care  to  have  me  come.'* 

He  was  all  dignity  and  charm  then.    They  needed  youth  in 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN  79 

that  quiet  place.  They  ought  all  to  be  able  to  forget  the 
past,  which  was  done  with,  anyhow.  He  showed  the  first 
genuine  interest  she  had  found  in  her  work  at  the  camp,  and 
before  his  unexpected  geniality  the  girl  opened  like  a  flower. 

And  all  the  time  he  was  watching  her  with  calculating  eyes. 
He  was  a  gambler  with  life,  and  he  rather  suspected  that  he 
had  just  drawn  a  valuable  card. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said  gravely,  when  she  had  finished.  "Yotf 
have  done  a  lot  to  bridge  the  gulf  that  lies — I  am  sure 
you  have  noticed  it — between  the  people  who  saw  service  in 
this  war  and  those  who  stayed  at  home." 

Suddenly  Lily  saw  that  the  gulf  between  her  family  and 
herself  was  just  that,  which  was  what  he  had  intended. 

When  Elinor  came  in  they  were  absorbed  in  conversation, 
Lily  flushed  and  eager,  and  her  husband  smiling,  urbane,  and 
genial. 

To  Lily,  Elinor  Doyle  had  been  for  years  a  figure  of  mys 
tery.  She  had  not  seen  her  for  many  years,  and  she  had 
remembered  a  thin,  girlish  figure,  tragic-eyed,  which  eternally 
stood  by  a  window  in  her  room,  looking  out.  But  here  was  a 
matronly  woman,  her  face  framed  with  soft,  dark  hair,  with 
eyes  like  her  father's,  with  Howard  Cardew's  ease  of  manner, 
too,  but  with  a  strange  passivity,  either  of  repression  or  of 
fires  early  burned  out  and  never  renewed. 

Lily  was  vaguely  disappointed.  Aunt  Elinor,  in  soft  gray 
silk,  matronly,  assured,unenthusiastically  pleased  to  see  her; 
Doyle  himself,  cheerful  and  suave;  the  neat  servant;  the  fire- 
lit,  comfortable  room, — there  was  no  drama  in  all  that,  no 
hint  of  mystery  or  tragedy.  All  the  hatred  at  home  for  an 
impulsive  assault  of  years  ago,  and — this! 

"Lily,  dear!"  Elinor  said,  and  kissed  her.  "Why,  Lily, 
you  are  a  woman !" 

"I  am  twenty,  Aunt  Elinor." 

"Yes,  of  course.  I  keep  forgetting.  I  live  so  quietly  here 
that  the  days  go  by  faster  than  I  know."  She  put  Lily  back 
in  her  chair,  and  glanced  at  her  husband. 

"Is  Louis  coming  to  dinner,  Jim?" 


8o A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

"Yes." 

"I  suppose  you  cannot  stay,  Lily?" 

"I  ought  to  tell  you,  Aunt  Elinor.  Only  mother  knows  that 
I  am  here." 

Aunt  Elinor  smiled  her  quiet  smile. 

"I  understand,  dear.    How  are  they  all?" 

"Grandfather  is  very  well.  Father  looks  tired.  There  is 
some  trouble  at  the  mill,  I  think." 

Elinor  glanced  at  Doyle,  but  he  said  nothing. 

"And  your  mother?" 

"She  is  well." 

Lily  was  commencing  to  have  an  odd  conviction,  which 
was  that  her  Aunt  Elinor  was  less  glad  to  have  her  there  than 
was  Jim  Doyle.  He  seemed  inclined  to  make  up  for  Elinor's 
lack  of  enthusiasm  by  his  own.  He  built  up  a  larger  fire, 
and  moved  her  chair  near  it. 

"Weather's  raw,"  he  said.  "Sure  you  are  comfortable  now? 
And  why  not  have  dinner  here?  We  have  an  interesting  man 
coming,  and  we  don't  often  have  the  chance  to  offer  our  guests 
a  charming  young  lady." 

"Lily  only  came  home  yesterday,  Jim,"  Elinor  observed. 
"Her  own  people  will  want  to  see  something  of  her.  Besides, 
they  do  not  know  she  is  here." 

Lily  felt  slightly  chilled.  For  years  she  had  espottsed  her 
Aunt  Elinor's  cause ;  in  the  early  days  she  had  painfully  hem 
stitched  a  small  handkerchief  each  fall  and  had  sent  it,  with 
much  secrecy,  to  Aunt  Elinor's  varying  addresses  at  Christmas. 
She  had  felt  a  childish  resentment  of  Elinor  Doyle's  martyr 
dom.  And  now — 

"Her  father  and  grandfather  are  dining  out  to-night."  Had 
Lily  looked  up  she  would  have  seen  Doyle's  eyes  fixed  on  his 
wife,  ugly  and  menacing. 

"Dining  out?"  Lily  glanced  at  him  in  surprise. 

''There  is  a  dinner  to-night,  for  the '  He  checked  him 
self  "The  steel  manufactuers  are  having  a  meeting,"  he 
finished.  "I  believe  to  discuss  me,  among  other  things.  Amaz 
ing  the  amount  of  discussion  my  simple  opinions  bring  about." 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN  81 

Elinor  Doyle,  unseen,  made  a  little  gesture  of  despair  and 
surrender. 

"I  hope  you  will  stay,  Lily,"  she  said.  "You  can  telephone, 
if  you  like.  I  don't  see  you  often,  and  there  is  so  much  I  want 
to  ask  you." 

In  the  end  Lily  agreed.  She  would  find  out  from  Grayson 
if  the  men  were  really  dining  out,  and  if  they  were  Grayson 
would  notify  her  mother  that  she  was  staying.  She  did  not 
quite  know  herself  why  she  had  accepted,  unless  it  was  be 
cause  she  was  bored  and  restless  at  home.  Perhaps,  too,  the 
lure  of  doing  a  forbidden  thing  influenced  her  subconsciously, 
the  thought  that  her  grandfather  would  detest  it.  She  had  not 
forgiven  him  for  the  night  before. 

Jim  Doyle  left  her  in  the  back  hall  at  the  telephone,  and 
returned  to  the  sitting  room,  closing  the  door  behind  him.  His 
face  was  set  and  angry. 

"I  thought  I  told  you  to  be  pleasant." 

"I  tried,  Jim.  You  must  remember  I  hardly  know  her." 
She  got  up  and  placed  her  hand  on  his  arm,  but  he  shook  it 
off.  "I  don't  understand,  Jim,  and  I  wish  you  wouldn't.  What 
good  is  it?" 

"I've  told  you  what  I  want.  I  want  that  girl  to  come  here, 
and  to  like  coming  here.  That's  plain,  isn't  it?  But  if  you're 

going  to  sit  with  a  frozen  face She'll  be  useful.  Useful 

as  hell  to  a  preacher." 

"I  can't  use  my  family  that  way." 

"You  and  your  family!  Now  listen,  Elinor.  This  isn't  a 
matter  of  the  Cardews  and  me.  It  may  be  nothing,  but  it  may 

be  a  big  thing.  I  hardly  know  yet "  His  voice  trailed  off ; 

he  stood  with  his  head  bent,  lost  in  those  eternal  calculations 
with  which  Elinor  Doyle  was  so  familiar. 

The  doorbell  rang,  and  was  immediately  followed  by  the 
opening  and  closing  of  the  front  door. 

From  her  station  at  the  telephone  Lily  Cardew  saw  a  man 
come  in,  little  more  than  a  huge  black  shadow,  which  placed  a 
hat  on  the  stand  and  then,  striking  a  match,  lighted  the  gas 
overhead.  In  the  illumination  he  stood  before  the  mirror, 


82 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

smoothing  back  his  shining  black  hair.  Then  he  saw  her, 
stared  and  retreated  into  the  sitting  room. 

"Got  company,  I  see." 

"My  niece,  Lily  Cardew,"  said  Doyle,  dryly. 

The  gentleman  seemed  highly  amused.  Evidently  he  con 
sidered  Lily's  presence  in  the  house  in  the  nature  of  a  huge 
joke.  He  was  conveying  this  by  pantomime,  in  deference  to 
the  open  door,  when  Doyle  nodded  toward  Elinor. 

"It's  customary  to  greet  your  hostess,  Louis." 

"Easiest  thing  I  do,"  boasted  the  new  arrival  cheerily.  "  'Lo, 
Mrs.  Doyle.  Is  our  niece  going  to  dine  with  us?" 

"I  don't  know  yet,  Mr.  Akers,"  she  said,  without  warmth. 

Louis  Akers  knew  quite  well  that  Elinor  did  not  like  him, 
and  the  thought  amused  him,  the  more  so  since  as  a  rule 
women  liked  him  rather  too  well.  Deep  in  his  heart  he  re 
spected  Jim  Doyle's  wife,  and  sometimes  feared  her.  He  re 
spected  her  because  she  had  behind  her  traditions  of  birth 
and  wealth,  things  he  professed  to  despise  but  secretly  envied. 
He  feared  her  because  he  trusted  no  woman,  and  she  knew 
too  much. 

She  loved  Jim  Doyle,  but  he  had  watched  her,  and  he  knew 
that  sometimes  she  hated  Doyle  also.  He  knew  that  could  be, 
because  there  had  been  women  who  had  both  loved  and  hated 
himself. 

Elinor  had  gone  out,  and  Akers  sat  down. 

"Well,"  he  said,  in  a  lowered  tone.     "I've  written  it." 

Doyle  closed  the  door,  and  stood  again  with  his  head  low 
ered,  considering. 

"You'd  better  look  over  it,"  continued  Lou.  <(I  don't  want 
to  be  jailed.  You're  better  at  skating  over  thin  ice  than  I  am. 
And  I've  been  thinking  over  the  Prohibition  matter,  Jim.  In 
a  sense  you're  right.  It  will  make  them  sullen  and  angry.  But 
they  won't  go  the  limit  without  booze.  I'd  advise  cache-ing 
a  lot  of  it  somewhere,  to  be  administered  when  needed." 

Doyle  returned  to  his  old  place  on  the  hearth-rug,  still 
thoughtful.  He  had  paid  no  attention  to  Aker's  views  on 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN  83 

Prohibition,  nor  to  the  paper  laid  upon  the  desk  in  the  center 
of  the  room. 

"Do  you  know  that  that  girl  in  the  hall  will  be  worth  forty 
million  dollars  some  day?" 

"Some  money,"  said  Akers,  calmly.  "Which  reminds  me, 
Jim,  that  I've  got  to  have  a  raise.  And  pretty  soon." 

"You  get  plenty,  if  you'd  leave  women  alone." 

"Tell  them  to  leave  me  alone,  then,"  said  Akers,  stretching 
out  his  long  legs.  "All  right.  We'll  talk  about  that  after 
dinner.  What  about  this  forty  millions?" 

Doyle  looked  at  him  quickly.  Akers'  speech  about  women 
had  crystallized  the  vague  plans  which  Lily's  arrival  had  sud 
denly  given  rise  to.  He  gave  the  young  man  a  careful  scru 
tiny,  from  his  handsome  head  to  his  feet,  and  smiled.  It  had 
occurred  to  him  that  the  Cardew  family  would  loathe  a  man 
of  Louis  Akers'  type  with  an  entire  and  whole-hearted  loath 
ing. 

"You  might  try  to  make  her  have  a  pleasant  evening,"  he 
suggested  dryly.  "And,  to  do  that,  it  might  be  as  well  to  re 
member  a  number  of  things,  one  of  which  is  that  she  is  ac 
customed  to  the  society  of  gentlemen." 

"All  right,  old  dear,"  said  Akers,  without  resentment. 

"She  hates  her  grandfather  like  poison,"  Doyle  went  on. 
"She  doesn't  know  it,  but  she  does.  A  little  education,  and  it 
is  just  possible " 

"Get  Olga.    I'm  no  kindergarten  teacher." 

"You  haven't  seen  her  in  the  light  yet." 

Louis  Akers  smiled  and  carefully  settled  his  tie. 

Like  Doyle,  Akers  loved  the  game  of  life,  and  he  liked  play 
ing  for  high  stakes.  He  had  joined  forces  with  Doyle  because 
the  game  was  dangerous  and  exciting,  rather  than  because  of 
any  real  conviction.  Doyle  had  a  fanatic  faith,  with  all  his 
calculation,  but  Louis  Akers  had  only  calculation  and  ambi 
tion.  A  practicing  attorney  in  the  city,  a  specialist  in  union 
law  openly,  a  Red  in  secret,  he  played  his  triple  game  shrewdly 
and  with  zest, 

Doyle  turned  to  go,  then  stopped  and  came  back.     "I  was 


84 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

forgetting  something,"  he  said,  slowly.  "What  possessed  you 
to  take  that  Boyd  girl  to  the  Searing  Building  the  other  night  ?" 
|i  "Who  told  you  that?" 

"Woslosky  saw  you  coming  out." 

"I  had  left  something  there,"  Akers  said  sullenly.  "That's 
the  truth,  whether  you  believe  it  or  not.  I  wasn't  there  two 
minutes." 

"You're  a  fool,  Louis,"  Doyle  said  coldly.  "You'll  play  that 
game  once  too  often.  What  happens  to  you  is  your  own  con 
cern,  but  what  may  happen  to  me  is  mine.  And  I'll  take 
mighty  good  care  it  doesn't  happen." 

Doyle  was  all  unction  and  hospitality  when  he  met  Lily  in 
the  hall.  At  dinner  he  was  brilliant,  witty,  the  gracious  host. 
Akers  played  up  to  him.  At  the  foot  of  the  table  Elinor  sat, 
outwardly  passive,  inwardly  puzzled,  and  watched  Lily.  She 
knew  the  contrast  the  girl  must  be  drawing,  between  the  bright 
little  meal,  with  its  simple  service  and  clever  talk,  and  those 
dreary  formal  dinners  at  home  when  old  Anthony  sometimes 
never  spoke  at  all,  or  again  used  his  caustic  tongue  like  a 
scourge.  Elinor  did  not  hate  her  father;  he  was  simply  no 
longer  her  father.  As  for  Howard,  she  had  had  a  childish  af 
fection  for  him,  but  he  had  gone  away  early  to  school,  and 
she  hardly  knew  him.  But  she  did  not  want  his  child  here, 
drinking  in  as  she  was,  without  clearly  understanding  what 
they  meant,  Doyle's  theories  of  unrest  and  revolution. 

"You  will  find  that  I  am  an  idealist,  in  a  way,"  he  was 
saying.  "That  is,  if  you  come  often.  I  hope  you  will,  by  the 
way.  I  am  perpetually  dissatisfied  with  things  as  they  are,  and 
wanting  them  changed.  With  the  single  exception  of  my 
wife" — he  bowed  to  Elinor,  "and  this  little  party,  which  is  de 
lightful." 

"Are  you  a  Socialist?"  Lily  demanded,  in  her  direct  way. 

"Well,  you  might  call  it  that.    I  go  a  bit  further." 

"Don't  talk  politics,  Jim,"  Elinor  hastily  interposed.  He 
caught  her  eye  and  grinned. 

''I'm  not  talking  politics,  my  dear."  He  turned  to  Lily,  smil 
ing. 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 85 

"For  one  thing,  I  don't  believe  that  any  one  should  have  a 
lot  of  money,  so  that  a  taxicab  could  remain  ticking  away 
fabulous  sums  while  a  charming  young  lady  dines  at  her 
leisure."  He  smiled  again. 

''Will  it  be  a  lot?"  Lily  asked.  "I  thought  I'd  better  keep 
him,  because "  She  hesitated. 

"Because  this  neighborhood  is  unlikely  to  have  a  cab  stand  ?  \ 
You  were  entirely  right.    But  I  can  see  that  you  won't  like  my 
idealistic   community.     You   see,   in   it   everybody   will   have 
enough,  and  nobody  will  have  too  much." 

"Don't  take  him  too  seriously,  Miss  Cardew,"  said  Akers, 
bending  forward.  "You  and  I  know  that  there  isn't  such  a 
thing  as  too  much." 

Elinor  changed  the  subject ;  as  a  girl  she  had  drawn  rather 
well,  and  she  had  retained  her  interest  in  that  form  of  art. 
There  was  an  exhibition  in  town  of  colored  drawings.  Lily 
should  see  them.  But  Jim  Doyle  countered  her  move. 

"I  forgot  to  mention,"  he  said,  "that  in  this  ideal  world  we 
were  discussing  the  arts  will  flourish.  Not  at  once,  of  course, 

because  the  artists  will  be  fighting " 

,     "Fighting?" 

''Per  aspera  ad  astra,"  put  in  Louis  Akers.  "You  cannot 
change  a  world  in  a  day,  without  revolution " 

"But  you  don't  believe  that  revolution  is  ever  worth  while, 
do  you  ?" 

"If  it  would  drive  starvation  and  wretchedness  from  the 
world,  yes." 

Lily  found  Louis  Akers  interesting.  Certainly  he  was  very 
handsome.  And  after  all,  why  should  there  be  misery  and 
hunger  in  the  world?  There  must  be  enough  for  all.  It  was 
hardly  fair,  for  instance,  that  she  should  have  so  much,  and 
others  scarcely  anything.  Only  it  was  like  thinking  about 
religion;  you  didn't  get  anywhere  with  it.  You  wanted  to  be 
good,  and  tried  to  be.  And  you  wanted  to  love  God,  only  He 
seemed  so  far  away,  mostly.  And  even  that  was  confusing, 
because  you  prayed  to  God  to  be  forgiven  for  wickedness,  but 
it  was  to  His  Son  our  Lord  one  went  for  help  in  trouble. 


86 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

One  could  be  sorry  for  the  poor,  and  even  give  away  all 
one  had,  but  that  would  only  help  a  few.  It  would  have  to  be 
that  every  one  who  had  too  much  would  give  up  all  but  what 
he  needed. 

Lily  tried  to  put  that  into  words. 

"Exactly/1  said  Jim  Doyle.  "Only  in  my  new  world  we 
realize  that  there  would  be  a  few  craven  spirits  who  might  not 
willingly  give  up  what  they  have.  In  that  case  it  would  be 
taken  from  them." 

"And  that  is  what  you  call  revolution?" 

"Precisely." 

"But  that's  not  revolution.    It  is  a  sort  of  justice,  isn't  it?" 

"You  think  very  straight,  young  lady,"  said  Jim  Doyle. 

He  had  a  fascinating  theory  of  individualism,  too;  no  man 
should  impose  his  will  and  no  community  its  laws,  on  the  in 
dividual.  Laws  were  for  slaves.  Ethics  were  better  than 
laws,  to  control. 

"Although,"  he  added,  urbanely,  "I  daresay  it  might  be  dif 
ficult  to  convert  Mr.  Anthony  Cardew  to  such  a  belief." 

While  Louis  Akers  saw  Lily  to  her  taxicab  that  night  Doyle 
stood  in  the  hall,  waiting.  He  was  very  content  with  his  eve 
ning's  work. 

"Well  ?"  he  said,  when  Akers  returned. 

"Merry  as  a  marriage  bell.  I'm  to  show  her  the  Brunelleschi 
drawings  to-morrow." 

Slightly  flushed,  he  smoothed  hii  hair  in  front  of  the  mirror 
over  the  stand. 

"She's  a  nice  child,"  he  said.  In  hii  eyes  was  the  look  of 
the  hunting  animal  that  scents  food. 


CHAPTER  X 

LILY  did  not  sleep  very  well  that  night.  She  was  repent 
ant,  for  one  thing,  for  her  mother's  evening  alone,  and 
for  the  anxiety  in  her  face  when  she  arrived. 

"I've  been  so  worried,"  she  said,  "I  was  afraid  your  grand 
father  would  get  back  before  you  did." 

"I'm  sorry,  mother  dear.  I  know  it  was  selfish.  But  I've 
had  a  wonderful  evening." 

"Wonderful?" 

"All  sorts  of  talk,"  Lily  said,  and  hesitated.  After  all,  her 
mother  would  not  understand,  and  it  woald  only  make  her 
uneasy.  "I  suppose  it  is  rank  hearsay  to  say  it,  but  I  like  Mr. 
Doyle." 

"I  detest  him." 

"But  you  don't  know  him,  do  you  ?" 

"I  know  he  is  stirring  up  all  sorts  of  trouble  for  us.  Lily, 
I  want  you  to  promise  not  to  go  back  there." 

There  was  a  little  silence.  A  small  feeling  of  rebellion  was 
rising  in  the  girl's  heart. 

"I  don't  see  why.    She  is  my  own  aunt." 

"Will  you  promise?" 

"Please  don't  ask  me,  mother.  I — oh,  don't  you  understand  ? 
It  is  interesting  there,  that's  all.  It  isn't  wrong  to  go.  And 
the  moment  you  forbid  it  you  make  me  want  to  go  back." 

"Were  there  any  other  people  there  to  dinner?"  Grace 
asked,  with  sudden  suspicion. 

"Only  one  man.    A  lawyer  named  Akers." 

The  name  meant  nothing  to  Grace  Cardew. 

"A  young  man?" 

"Not  very  young.  In  his  thirties,  I  should  think,"  Lily  hesi 
tated  again.  She  had  meant  to  tell  her  mother  of  the  engage 
ment  for  the  next  day,  but  Grace's  attitude  made  it  difficult. 
To  be  absolutely  forbidden  to  meet  Louis  Akers  at  the  gallery, 

87 


88 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

and  to  be  able  to  give  no  reason  beyond  the  fact  that  she  had 
met  him  at  the  Doyle  house,  seemed  absurd. 

"A  gentleman?" 

"I  hardly  know,"  Lily  said  frankly.  "In  your  sense  of  the 
word,  perhaps  not,  mother.  But  he  is  very  clever." 

Grace  Cardew  sighed  and  picked  up  her  book.  She  never 
retired  until  Howard  came  in.  And  Lily  went  upstairs,  un 
easy  and  a  little  defiant.  She  must  live  her  own  life,  some 
how;  have  her  own  friends;  think  her  own  thoughts.  The 
quiet  tyranny  of  the  family  was  again  closing  down  on  her.  It 
would  squeeze  her  dry,  in  the  end,  as  it  had  her  mother  and 
Aunt  Elinor. 

She  stood  for  a  time  by  her  window,  looking  out  at  the 
city.  Behind  her  was  her  warm,  luxurious  room,  her  deep, 
soft  bed.  Yet  all  through  the  city  there  were  those  who  did 
not  sleep  warm  and  soft.  Close  by,  perhaps,  in  that  deterior 
ated  neighborhood,  there  were  children  that  very  night  going 
to  bed  hungry. 

Because  things  had  always  been  like  that,  should  they  al 
ways  be  so?  Wasn't  Mr.  Doyle  right,  after  all?  Only  he 
went  very  far.  You  couldn't,  for  instance,  take  from  a  man 
the  thing  he  had  earned.  What  about  the  people  who  did  not 
try  to  earn? 

She  rather  thought  she  would  be  clearer  about  it  if  she 
talked  to  Willy  Cameron. 

She  went  to  bed  at  last,  a  troubled  young  thing  in  a  soft 
white  night-gown,  passionately  in  revolt  against  the  injustice 
which  gave  to  her  so  much  and  to  others  so  little.  And  against 
that  quiet  domestic  tyranny  which  was  forcing  her  to  her 
first  deceit. 

Yet  the  visit  to  the  gallery  was  innocuous  enough.  Louis 
Akers  met  her  there,  and  carefully  made  the  rounds  with  her. 
Then  he  suggested  tea,  and  chose  a  quiet  tea-room,  and  a 
corner. 

"I'll  tell  you  something,  now  it's  over,"  he  said,  his  bold 
eyes  fixed  on  hers.  "I  loathe  galleries  and  pictures.  I  wanted 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 89 

to  see  you  again.  That's  all.  You  see,  I  am  starting  in 
by  being  honest  with  you." 

She   was   rather  uncomfortable. 

"Why  don't  you  like  pictures  ?" 

"Because  they  are  only  imitations  of  life.  I  like  life."  He 
pushed  his  teacup  a\vay.  "I  don't  want  tea  either.  Tea  was 
an  excuse,  too."  He  smiled  at  her.  "Perhaps  you  don't  like 
honesty,"  he  said.  "If  you  don't  you  won't  care  for  me." 

She  was  too  inexperienced  to  recognize  the  gulf  between 
frankness  and  effrontery,  but  he  made  her  vaguely  uneasy. 
He  knew  so  many  things,  and  yet  he  was  so  obviously  not 
quite  a  gentleman,  in  her  family's  sense  of  the  word.  Fie  had 
a  curious  effect  on  her,  too,  one  that  she  resented.  He  made 
her  insistently  conscious  of  her  sex. 

And  of  his.  His  very  deference  had  something  of  re 
straint  about  it.  She  thought,  trying  to  drink  her  tea  quietly, 
that  he  might  be  very  terrible  if  he  loved  any  one.  There 
was  a  sort  of  repressed  fierceness  behind  his  suavity. 

But  he  interested  her,  and  he  was  undeniably  handsome, 
not.  in  her  father's  way  but  with  high-colored,  almost  dramatic 
good  looks.  There  could  be  no  doubt,  too,  that  he  was  inter 
ested  in  her.  He  rarely  took  his  eyes  off  hers.  Afterwards 
she  was  to  know  well  that  bold  possessive  look  of  his. 

It  was  just  before  they  left  that  he  said: 

"I  am  going  to  see  you  again,  you  know.  May  I  come  in 
some  afternoon?" 

Lily  had  been  foreseeing  that  for  some  momems,  and  she 
raised  frank  eyes  to  his. 

"I  am  afraid  not,"  she  said.  "You  see,  you  are  a  friend 
of  Mr.  Doyle's,  and  you  must  know  that  my  people  and  Aunt 
Elinor's  husband  are  on  bad  terms." 

"What  has  that  got  to  do  with  you  and  me?"  Then  he 
laughed.  "Might  be  unpleasant,  I  suppose.  But  you  go  to 
the  Doyles'." 

She  was  very  earnest. 

"My  mother  knows,  but  my  grandfather  wouldn't  permit 
it  if  he  knew." 


90 A  POOR  WISE  MAIM 

''And  you  put  up  with  that  sort  of  thing?"  He  leaned  closer 
to  her.  "You  are  not  a  baby,  you  know.  But  I  will  say 
you  are  a  good  sport  to  do  it,  anyhow," 

"I'm  not  very  comfortable  about  it." 

"Bosh,"  he  said,  abruptly.  "You  go  there  as  often  as  you 
can.  Elinor  Doyle's  a  lonely  woman,  and  Jim  is  all  right. 
You  pick  your  own  friends,  my  child,  and  live  your  own  life. 
Every  human  being  has  that  right." 

He  helped  her  into  a  taxi  at  the  door  of  the  tea  shop,  giv 
ing  her  rather  more  assistance  than  she  required,  and  then 
standing  bare-headed  in  the  March  wind  until  the  car  had 
moved  away.  Lily,  sitting  back  in  her  corner,  was  both  re 
pelled  and  thrilled.  He  was  totally  unlike  the  men  she  knew, 
those  carefully  repressed,  conventional  clean-cut  boys,  like 
Pink  Denslow.  He  was  raw,  vigorous  and  possibly  brutal. 
She  did  not  quite  like  him,  but  she  found  herself  thinking  about 
him  a  great  deal 

The  old  life  was  reaching  out  its  friendly,  idle  hands  toward 
her.  The  next  day  Grace  gave  a  luncheon  for  her  at  the 
house,  a  gay  little  affair  of  color,  chatter  and  movement. 
But  Lily  found  herself  with  little  to  say.  Her  year  away  had 
separated  her  from  the  small  community  of  interest  that 
bound  the  others  together,  and  she  wondered,  listening  to 
them  in  her  sitting  room  later,  what  they  would  all  talk  about, 
when  they  had  exchanged  their  bits  of  gossip,  their  news  of 
this  man  and  that.  It  would  all  be  said  so  soon.  And  what 
then? 

Here  they  were,  and  here  they  would  always  be,  their  own 
small  circle,  carefully  guarded.  They  belonged  together, 
they  and  the  men  who  likewise  belonged.  Now  and  then 
there  would  be  changes.  A  new  man,  of  irreproachable  fam 
ily  connections  would  come  to  live  in  the  city,  and  cause 
a  small  flurry.  Then  in  time  he  would  be  appropriated.  Or  a 
girl  would  come  to  visit,  and  by  the  same  system  of  appropria 
tion  would  come  back  later,  permanently.  Always  the  same 
faces,  the  same  small  talk.  Orchids  or  violets  at  luncheons, 
white  or  rose  or  blue  or  yellow  frocks  at  dinner*  and  dances. 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN  91 

Golf  at  the  country  club.  Travel,  in  the  Cardew  private  car, 
cut  off  from  fellow-travelers  who  might  prove  interesting. 
.Winter  at  Palm  Beach,  and  a  bit  of  a  thrill  at  seeing  moving 
picture  stars  and  theatrical  celebrities  playing  on  the  sand. 
One  never  had  a  chance  to  meet  them. 

And,  in  quiet  intervals,  this  still  house,  and  grandfather 
shut  away  in  his  upstairs  room,  but  holding  the  threads  of  all 
their  lives  as  a  spider  clutches  the  diverging  filaments  of  its 
web. 

"Get  in  on  this,  Lily,"  said  a  clear  young  voice.  "We're 
talking  about  the  most  interesting  men  we  met  in  our  war 
work.  You  ought  to  have  known  a  lot  of  them." 

"I  knew  a  lot  of  men.  They  were  not  so  very  interesting. 
There  was  a  little  nurse " 

"Men,  Lily  dear." 

"There  was  one  awfully  nice  boy.  He  wasn't  a  soldier, 
but  he  was  very  kind  to  the  men.  They  adored  him." 

"Did  he  fall  in  love  with  you?" 

"Not  a  particle." 

"Why  wasn't  he  a  soldier?" 

"He  is  a  little  bit  lame.    But  he  is  awfully  nice." 

"But  what  is  extraordinary  about  him,  then?" 

"Not  a  thing,  except  his  niceness." 

But  they  were  surfeited  with  nice  young  men.  They  wanted 
something  dramatic,  and  Willy  Cameron  was  essentially  un- 
dramatic.  Besides,  it  was  quite  plain  that,  with  unconscious 
cruelty,  his  physical  handicap  made  him  unacceptable  to  them. 

"Don't  be  ridiculous,  Lily.  You're  hiding  some  one  behind 
this  kind  person.  You  must  have  met  somebody  worth  while." 

"Not  in  the  camp.  I  know  a  perfectly  nice  Socialist,  but  he 
was  not  in  the  army.  Not  a  Socialist,  really.  Much  worse. 
He  believes  in  having  a  revolution." 

That  stirred  them  somewhat.  She  saw  their  interested 
faces  turned  toward  her. 

"With  a  bomb  under  his  coat,  of  course,  Lily." 

"He  didn't  bulge." 

"Good-looking?" 


92 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

"Well,  rather." 

"How  old  is  he,  Lily  ?"  one  of  them  asked,  suspiciously. 

"Almost  fifty,  I  should  say." 

"Good  heavens !" 

Their  interest  died.  She  could  have  revived  it,  she  knew, 
if  she  mentioned  Louis  Akers ;  he  would  have  answered  to 
their  prime  requisite  in  an  interesting  man.  He  was  both 
handsome  and  young.  But  she  felt  curiously  disinclined  to 
mention  him. 

The  party  broke  up.  By  ones  and  twos  luxuriously  dressed 
little  figures  went  down  the  great  staircase,  where  Grayson 
stood  in  the  hall  and  the  footman  on  the  doorstep  signaled 
to  the  waiting  cars.  Mademoiselle,  watching  from  a  point 
of  vantage  in  the  upper  hall,  felt  a  sense  of  comfort  and 
well-being  after  they  had  all  gone.  This  was  as  it  should  be. 
Lily  would  take  up  life  again  where  she  had  left  it  off,  and 
all  would  be  well. 

It  was  now  the  sixth  day,  and  she  had  not  yet  carried  out 
that  absurd  idea  of  asking  Ellen's  friend  to  dinner. 

Lily  was,  however,  at  that  exact  moment  in  process  of 
carrying  it  out. 

"Telephone  for  you,  Mr.  Cameron." 

"Thanks.    Coming,"  sang  out  Willy  Cameron. 

Edith  Boyd  sauntered  toward  his  doorway. 

"It's  a  lady." 

"Woman,"  corrected  Willy  Cameron.  "The  word  'lady'  is 
now  obsolete,  since  your  sex  has  entered  the  economic  world." 
He  put  on  his  coat. 

"I  said  'lady'  and  that's  what  I  mean,"  said  Edith.  "  'May 
I  speak  to  Mr.  Cameron?'  "  she  mimicked.  ''Regular  Newport 
accent." 

Suddenly  Willy  Cameron  went  rather  pale.  If  it  should  be 
Lily  Cardew — but  then  of  course  it  wouldn't  be.  She  had 
been  home  for  six  days,  and  if  she  had  meant  to  call 

"Hello,"  he  said. 

It  was  Lily.     Something  that  had  been  like  a  band  around 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN  93 

his  heart  suddenly  loosened,  to  fasten  about  his  throat.  His 
voice  sounded  strangled  and  strange. 

"Why,  yes,"  he  said,  in  the  unfamiliar  voice.  "I'd  like 
to  come,  of  course." 

Edith  Boyd  watched  and  listened,  with  a  slightly  strained 
look  in  her  eyes. 

"To  dinner  ?    But — I  don't  think  I'd  better  come  to  dinner." 

"Why  not,  Willy?" 

Mr.  William  Wallace  Cameron  glanced  around.  There  was 
no  one  about  save  Miss  Boyd,  who  was  polishing  the  nails  of 
one  hand  on  the  palm  of  the  other. 

"May  I  come  in  a  business  suit?" 

"Why,  of  course.     Why  not?" 

"I  didn't  know,"  said  Willy  Cameron.  "I  didn't  know  what 
your  people  would  think.  That's  all.  To-morrow  at  eight, 
then.  Thanks." 

He  hung  up  the  receiver  and  walked  to  the  door,  where  he 
stood  looking  out  and  seeing  nothing.  She  had  not  forgotten. 
He  was  going  to  see  her.  Instead  of  standing  across  the 
street  by  the  park  fence,  waiting  for  a  glimpse  of  her  which 
never  came,  he  was  to  sit  in  the  room  with  her.  There  would 
be — eight  from  eleven  was  three — three  hours  of  her. 

What  a  wonderful  day  it  was !  Spring  was  surely  near. 
He  would  like  to  be  able  to  go  and  pick  up  Jinx,  and  then  take 
a  long  walk  through  the  park.  He  needed  movement.  He 
needed  to  walk  off  his  excitement  or  he  felt  that  he  might  burst 
with  it. 

"Eight  o'clock !"  said  Edith.  "I  wish  you  joy,  waiting  until 
eight  for  supper." 

He  had  to  come  back  a  long,  long  way  to  her. 

'  'May  I  come  in  a  business  suit?'  "  she  mimicked  him.  "My* 
evening  clothes  have  not  arrived  yet.  My  valet's  bringing 
them  up  to  town  to-morrow." 

^  Even  through  the  radiant  happiness  that  surrounded  him 
like  a  mist,  he  caught  the  bitterness  under  her  raillery.  It 
puzzled  him. 


94  A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

"It's  a  young  lady  I  knew  at  camp.  I  was  in  an  army 
camp,  you  know." 

"Is  her  name  a  secret?" 

''Why,  no.     It  is  Cardew.     Miss  Lily  Cardew." 

"I  believe  you — not." 

"But  it  is,"  he  said,  genuinely  concerned.  "Why  in  the 
world  should  I  give  you  a  wrong  name?" 

Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  his  face. 

"No.  You  wouldn't.  But  it  makes  me  laugh,  because — 
well,  it  was  crazy,  anyhow." 

"What  was  crazy  ?" 

"Something  I  had  in  my  mind.  Just  forget  it.  I'll  tell 
you  what  will  happen,  Mr.  Cameron.  You'll  stay  here  about 
six  weeks.  Then  you'll  get  a  job  at  the  Cardew  Mills.  They 
use  chemists  there,  and  you  will  be " 

She  lifted  her  finger-tips  and  blew  along  them  delicately. 

"Gone— like  that,"  she  finished. 

Sometimes  Willy  Cameron  wondered  about  Miss  Boyd. 
The  large  young  man,  for  instance,  whose  name  he  had  learned 
was  Louis  Akers,  did  not  come  any  more.  Not  since  that 
telephone  conversation.  But  he  had  been  distinctly  a  grade 
above  that  competent  young  person,  Edith  Boyd,  if  there 
were  such  grades  these  days;  fluent  and  prosperous-looking, 
and  probably  able  to  offer  a  girl  a  good  home.  But  she  had 
thrown  him  over.  He  had  heard  her  doing  it,  and  when  he 
had  once  ventured  to  ask  her  about  Akers  she  had  cut  him  off 
curtly. 

"I  was  sick  to  death  of  him.    That's  all,"  she  had  said. 

But  on  the  night  of  Lily's  invitation  he  was  to  hear  more 
of  Louis  Akers. 

It  was  his  evening  in  the  shop.  One  day  he  came  on  at 
seven-thirty  in  the  morning  and  was  off  at  six,  and  the  next 
he  came  at  ten  and  stayed  until  eleven  at  night.  The  evening 
business  was  oddly  increasing.  Men  wandered  in,  bought  a 
tube  of  shaving  cream  or  a  tooth-brush,  and  sat  or  stood 
around  for  an  hour  or  so;  clerks  whose  families  had  gone 
to  the  movies,  bachelors  who  found  their  lodging  houses 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 95 

dreary,  a  young  doctor  or  two,  coming  in  after  evening  office 
hours  to  leave  a  prescription,  and  remaining  to  talk  and 
listen.  Thus  they  satisfied  their  gregarious  instinct  while 
within  easy  call  of  home. 

The  wealthy  had  their  clubs.  The  workmen  of  the  city 
had  their  halls  and  sometimes  their  saloons.  But  in  between 
was  that  vast,  unorganized  male  element  which  was  neither, 
and  had  neither.  To  them  the  neighborhood  pharmacy,  open 
in  the  evening,  warm  and  bright,  gave  them  a  rendezvous. 
They  gathered  there  in  thousands,  the  country  over.  During 
the  war  they  fought  their  daily  battles  there,  with  newspaper 
maps.  After  the  war  the  League  of  Nations,  local  politics, 
a  bit  of  neighborhood  scandal,  washed  down  with  soft  drinks 
from  the  soda  fountain,  furnished  the  evening's  entertain 
ment. 

The  Eagle  Pharmacy  had  always  been  the  neighborhood 
club,  but  with  the  advent  of  Willy  Cameron  it  was  attaining 
a  new  popularity.  The  roundsman  on  the  beat  dropped  in, 
the  political  boss  of  the  ward,  named  Hendricks,  Doctor  Smal- 
ley,  the  young  physician  who  lived  across  the  street,  and  others. 
Back  of  the  store  proper  was  a  room,  with  the  prescription 
desk  at  one  side  and  reserve  stock  on  shelves  around  the 
other  three.  Here  were  a  table  and  a  half  dozen  old  chairs, 
a  war  map,  still  showing  with  colored  pins  the  last  positions 
before  the  great  allied  advance,  and  an  ancient  hat-rack,  which 
had  held  from  time  immemorial  an  umbrella  with  three  broken 
ribs  and  a  pair  of  arctics  of  unknown  ownership. 

"Going  to  watch  this  boy,"  Hendricks  confided  to  Doctor 
Smalley  a  night  or  two  after  Lily's  return,  meeting  him  out 
side.  "He  sure  can  talk/* 

Doctor  Smalley  grinned. 

"He  can  read  my  writing,  too,  which  is  more  than  I  can  do 
myself.  What  do  you  mean,  watch  him?" 

But  whatever  his  purposes  Mr.  Hendricks  kept  them  to  him 
self.  A  big,  burly  man,  with  a  fund  of  practical  good  sense 
and  a  keen  knowledge  of  men,  he  had  gained  a  small  but  loyal 
political  following.  He  was  a  retired  master  plumber,  with 


96 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

a  small  income  from  careful  investments,  and  he  had  a  curi 
ous,  almost  fanatic  love  for  the  city. 

"I  was  born  here,"  he  would  say,  boastfully.  "And  I've 
seen  it  grow  from  fifty  thousand  to  what  it's  got  now.  Some 
folks  say  it's  dirty,  but  it's  home  to  me,  all  right." 

But  on  the  evening  of  Lily's  invitation  the  drug  store 
forum  found  Willy  Cameron  extremely  silent.  He  had  been 
going  over  his  weaknesses,  for  the  thought  of  Lily  always 
made  him  humble,  and  one  of  them  was  that  he  got  carried 
away  by  things  and  talked  too  much.  He  did  not  intend  to 
do  that  the  next  night,  at  the  Cardew's. 

"Something's  scared  him  off,"  said  Mr.  Hendricks  to  Doctor 
Smalley,  after  a  half  hour  of  almost  taciturnity,  while  Willy 
Cameron  smoked  his  pipe  and  listened.  "Watch  him  rise  to 
this,  though."  And  aloud : 

"Why  don't  you  fellows  drop  the  League  of  Nations,  which 
none  of  you  knows  a  damn  about  anyhow,  and  get  to  the 
thing  that's  coming  in  this  country?" 

"I'll  bite,"  said  Mr.  Clarey,  who  sold  life  insurance  in  the 
daytime  and  sometimes  utilized  his  evenings  in  a  similar  man 
ner.  "What's  coming  to  this  country?" 

"Revolution." 

The  crowd  laughed. 

"All  right,"  said  Mr.  Hendricks.  "Laugh  while  you  can. 
I  saw  the  Chief  of  Police  to-day,  and  he's  got  a  line  of  con 
versation  that  makes  a  man  feel  like  taking  his  savings  out 
of  the  bank  and  burying  them  in  the  back  yard." 

Willy  Cameron  took  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth,  but  remained 
dumb. 

Mr.  Hendricks  nudged  Doctor  Smalley,  who  rose  manfully 
to  the  occasion.  "What  does  he  say?" 

"Says  the  Russians  have  got  a  lot  of  paid  agents  here.  Not 
all  Russians  either.  Some  of  our  Americans  are  in  it.  It's 
to  begin  with  a  general  strike." 

"In  this  town?" 

"All  over  the  country.  But  this  is  a  good  field  for  them. 
The  crust's  pretty  thin  here,  and  where  that's  the  case  there  is 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN  97 

likely  to  be  earthquakes  and  eruptions.  The  Chief  says  they're, 
bringing  in  a  bunch  of  gunmen,  wobblies  and  Bolshevists 
from  every  industrial  town  on  the  map.  Did  you  get  that, 
Cameron  ?  Gunmen !" 

"Any  of  you  .men  here  dissatisfied  with  this  form  of  govern 
ment?"  inquired  Willy,  rather  truculently. 

"Not  so  you  could  notice  it,"  said  Mr.  Clarey.  "And  once 
the  Republican  party  gets  in " 

"Then  there  will  never  be  a  revolution." 

"Why?" 

"That's  why,"  said  Willy  Cameron.  "Of  course  you  are 
worthless  now.  You  aren't  organized.  You  don't  know  how 
many  you  are  or  how  strong  you  are.  You  can't  talk.  You 
sit  back  and  listen  until  you  believe  that  this  country  is  only 
capital  and  labor.  You  get  squeezed  in  between  them.  You 
see  labor  getting  more  money  than  you,  and  howling  for  still 
more.  You  see  both  capital  and  labor  raising  prices  until 
you  can't  live  on  what  you  get.  There  are  a  hundred  times 
as  many  of  you  as  represent  capital  and  labor  combined,  and 
all  you  do  is  loaf  here  and  growl  about  things  being  wrong. 
Why  don't  you  do  something?  You  ought  to  be  running  this 
country,  but  you  aren't.  You're  lazy.  You  don't  even  vote. 
You  leave  running  the  country  to  men  like  Mr.  Hendricks 
here." 

Mr.   Hendricks   was   cheerfully  unirritated. 

"All  right,  son,"  he  said,  "I  do  my  bit  and  like  it.  Go  on. 
Don't  stop  to  insult  me.  You  can  do  that  any  time." 

"I've  been  buying  a  seditious  weekly  since  I  came,"  said 
Willy  Cameron.  "It's  preaching  a  revolution,  all  right.  I'd 
like  to  see  its  foreign  language  copies.  They'll  never  overthrow 
the  government,  but  they  may  try.  Why  don't  you  fellows 
combine  to  fight  them  ?  Why  don't  you  learn  how  strong  you 
are?  Nine-tenths  of  the  country,  and  milling  like  sheep 
with  a  wolf  around !" 

Mr.  Hendricks  winked  at  the  doctor. 

"What'd  I  tell  you?"  whispered  Hendricks.  "Got  them, 
hasn't  he?  If  he'd  suggest  arming  them  with  pop  bottles  and 


98 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

attacking  that  gang  of  anarchists  at  the  cobbler's  down  the 
street,  they'd  do  it  this  minute." 

"All  right,  son,"  he  offered.  "We'll  combine.  Anything 
you  say  goes.  And  we'll  get  the  Jim  Doyle- Woslosky-Louis 
Akers  outfit  first.  I  know  a  first-class  brick  wall " 

"A<ers?"  said  Willy  Cameron.     "Do  you  know  him?" 

"I  do,"  said  Hendricks.  "But  that  needn't  prejudice  you 
against  me  any.  He's  a  bad  actor,  and  as  smooth  as  butter. 
D'you  know  what  their  plan  is  ?  They  expect  to  take  the  city. 
This  city!  The "  Mr.  Hendrick's  voice  was  lost  in  fury. 

"Talk!"  said  the  roundsman.  "Where'd  the  police  be,  I'm 
asking?" 

"The  police,"  said  Mr.  Hendricks,  evidently  quoting,  "are 
as  filled  with  sedition  as  a  whale  with  corset  bones.  Also  the 
army.  Also  the  state  constabulary." 

"The  hell  they  are,"  said  the  roundsman  aggressively. 

But  Willy  Cameron  was  staring  through  the  smoke  from 
his  pipe  at  the  crowd. 

"They  might  do  it,  for  a  while,"  he  said  thoughtfully. 
"There's  a  tremendous  foreign  population  in  the  mill  towns 
around,  isn't  there?  Does  anybody  in  the  crowd  own  a  re 
volver?  Or  know  how  to  use  it  if  he  has  one?" 

"I've  got  one,"  said  the  insurance  agent.  "Don't  know  how 
it  would  work.  Found  my  wife  nailing  oilcloth  with  it  the 
other  day." 

"Very  well.  If  we're  a  representative  group,  they  wouldn't 
need  a  battery  of  eight-inch  guns,  would  they?" 

A  little  silence  fell  on  the  group.  Around  them  the  city 
went  about  its  business;  the  roar  of  the  day  had  softened  to 
muffled  night  sounds,  as  though  one  said:  "The  city  sleeps. 
Be  still."  The  red  glare  of  the  mills  was  the  fire  on  the 
hearth.  The  hills  were  its  four  protecting  walls.  And  the 
night  mist  covered  it  like  a  blanket. 

"Here's  one  representative  of  the  plain  people,"  said  Mr. 
Hendricks,  "who  is  going  home  to  get  some  sleep.  And  to 
morrow  I'll  buy  me  a  gun,  and  if  I  can  keep  the  children  out 
of  the  yard  I'll  learn  to  use  it." 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 99 

For  a  long  time  after  he  went  home  that  night  Willy  Cam 
eron  paced  the  floor  of  his  upper  room,  paced  it  until  an  irate 
boarder  below  hammered  on  his  chandelier.  Jinx  followed 
him,  moving  sedately  back  and  forth,  now  and  then  glancing 
up  with  idolatrous  eyes.  Willy  Cameron's  mind  was  active 
and  not  particularly  coordinate.  The  Cardews  and  Lily ;  Edith 
Boyd  and  Louis  Akers ;  the  plain  people ;  an  army  marching 
to  the  city  to  loot  and  burn  and  rape,  and  another  army 
meeting  it,  saying :  "You  shall  not  pass" ;  Abraham  Lincoln, 
Russia,  Lily. 

His  last  thought,  of  course,  was  of  Lily  Car  dew.  He  had 
neglected  to  cover  Jinx,  and  at  last  the  dog  leaped  on  the  bed 
and  snuggled  close  to  him.  He  threw  an  end  of  the  blanket 
over  him  and  lay  there,  staring  into  the  darkness.  He  was 
frightfully  lonely.  At  last  he  fell  asleep,  and  the  March  wind, 
coming  in  through  the  open  window,  overturned  a  paper  lean 
ing  against  his  collar  box,  on  which  he  had  carefully  written : 

Have  suit  pressed. 

Buy  new  tie. 

Shirts  from  laundry. 


CHAPTER  XI 

GOING  home  that  night  Mr.  Hendricks  met  Edith  Boyd, 
and  accompanied  her  for  a  block  or  two.  At  his  corner 
he  stopped. 

"How's  your  mother,  Edith  ?" 

It  was  Mr.  Hendricks'  business  to  know  his  ward  thor 
oughly. 

"About  the  same.  She  isn't  really  sick,  Mr.  Hendricks. 
She's  just  low  spirited,  but  that's  enough.  I  hate  to  go  home." 

Hendricks  hesitated. 

"Still,  home's  a  pretty  good  place,"  he  said.  "Especially  for 
a  pretty  girl."  There  was  unmistakable  meaning  in  his  tone, 
and  she  threw  up  her  head. 

"I've  got  to  get  some  pleasure  out  of  life,  Mr.  Hendricks." 

"Sure  you  have,"  he  agreed  affably.  "But  playing  around 
with  Louis  Akers  is  like  playing  with  a  hand-grenade,  Edith." 
She  said  nothing.  "I'd  cut  him  out,  little  girl.  He's  poor 
stuff.  Mind,  I'm  not  saying  he's  a  fool,  but  he's  a  bad  actor. 
Now  if  I  was  a  pretty  girl,  and  there  was  a  nice  fellow  around 
like  this  Cameron,  I'd  be  likely  to  think  he  was  all  right.  He's 
got  brains."  Mr.  Hendricks  had  a  great  admiration  for 
brains. 

"I'm  sick  of  men." 

He  turned  at  her  tone  and  eyed  her  sharply. 

"Well,  don't  judge  them  all  by  Akers.  This  is  my  corner. 
Good-night.  Not  afraid  to  go  on  by  yourself,  are  you?" 

"If  I  ever  was  I've  had  a  good  many  chances  to  get  over  it." 

He  turned  the  corner,  but  stopped  and  called  after  her. 

"Tell  Dan  I'll  be  in  to  see  him  soon,  Edith.  Haven't  seen 
him  since  he  came  back  from  France." 

"All  right." 

She  went  on,  her  steps  lagging.  She  hated  going  home. 
When  she  reached  the  little  house  she  did  not  go  in  at  once. 

100 


A  POOR  WJ/&B, M'AN- ; :  ••'•,  \  ' '    101 

The  March  night  was  not  cold,  and  she  sat  down  on  the  door 
step,  hoping  to  see  her  mother's  light  go  out  in  the  second- 
story  front  windows.  But  it  continued  to  burn  steadily,  and 
at  last,  with,  a  gesture  of  despair,  she  rose  and  unlocked  the 
door. 

Almost  at  once  she  heard  footsteps  above,  and  a  peevish 

voice. 

"That  you,  Edie?" 

"Yes." 

"D'you  mind  bringing  up  the  chloroform  liniment  and  rub 
bing  my  back  ?" 

"I'll  bring  it,  mother." 

She  found  it  on  the  wainscoting  in  the  untidy  kitchen.  She 
could  hear  the  faint  scurrying  of  water  beetles  over  the  oil 
cloth-covered  floor,  and  then  silence.  She  fancied  myriads  of 
tiny,  watchful  eyes  on  her,  and  something  crunched  under  her 
foot.  She  felt  like  screaming.  That  new  clerk  at  the  store 
was  always  talking  about  homes.  What  did  he  know  of  squalid 
city  houses,  with  their  insects  and  rats,  their  damp,  moldy 
cellars,  their  hateful  plumbing?  A  thought  struck  her.  She 
lighted  the  gas  and  stared  around.  It  was  as  she  had  ex 
pected.  The  dishes  had  not  been  washed.  They  were  piled  in 
the  sink,  and  a  soiled  dish-towel  had  been  thrown  over  them. 

She  lowered  the  gas  and  went  upstairs.  The  hardness  had, 
somehow,  gone  out  of  her  when  she  thought  of  Willy  Cameron. 

"Back  bad  again,  is  it  ?"  she  asked. 

"It's  always  bad.  But  I've  got  a  pain  in  my  left  shoulder 
and  down  my  arm  that's  driving  me  crazy.  I  couldn't  wash 
the  dishes." 

"Never  mind  the  dishes.  I'm  not  tired.  Now  crawl  into  bed 
and  let  me  rub  you." 

Mrs.  Boyd  complied.  She  was  a  small,  thin  woman  in  her 
'early  fifties,  who  had  set  out  to  conquer  life  and  had  been 
conquered  by  it.  The  hopeless  drab  of  her  days  stretched 
behind  her,  broken  only  by  the  incident  of  her  widowrhood,  and 
stretched  ahead  hopelessly.  She  had  accepted  Dan's  going 
to  France  resignedly,  with  neither  protest  nor  undue  anxiety. 


• 

'.  ,'  :  •  •'  i  •   : 

IO2           : 

:  :'A/PQdR'.wisE 

MAN 

She  had  never  been  very  close  to  Dan,  although  she  loved 
him  more  than  she  did  Edith.  She  was  the  sort  of  woman 
who  has  no  fundamental  knowledge  of  men.  They  had  to  be 
fed  and  mended  for,  and  they  had  strange  physical  wants 
that  made  a  great  deal  of  trouble  in  the  world.  But  mostly 
they  ate  and  slept  and  went  to  work  in  the  morning,  and  came 
home  at  night  smelling  of  sweat  and  beer. 

There  had  been  one  little  rift  in  the  gray  fog  of  her  daily 
life,  however.  And  through  it  she  had  seen  Edith  well  mar 
ried,  with  perhaps  a  girl  to  do  the  house  work,  and  a  room 
where  Edith's  mother  could  fold  her  hands  and  sit  in  the  long 
silences  without  thought  that  were  her  sanctuary  against  life. 

"Is  that  the  place,  mother?" 

"Yes."    Edith's  unwonted  solicitude  gave  her  courage. 

"Edie.  I  want  to  ask  you  something/' 

"Well  ?"     But  the  girl  stiffened. 

"Lou  hasn't  been  round,  lately." 

"That's  all  over,  mother." 

"You  mean  you've  quarreled?  Oh,  Edie,  and  me  planning 
you'd  have  a  nice  home  and  everything." 

"He  never  meant  to  marry  me,  if  that's  what  you  mean." 

Mrs.  Boyd  turned  on  her  back  impatiently. 

"You  could  have  had  him.  He  was  crazy  about  you. 
Trouble  is  with  you,  you  think  you've  got  a  fellow  hard 
and  fast,  and  you  begin  acting  up.  Then,  first  thing  you 
know " 

Some  of  that  strange  new  tolerance  persisted  in  the  girl. 

"Listen,  mother,"  she  said.  "I  give  you  my  word,  Lou'd 
run  a  mile  if  he  thought  any  girl  wanted  to  marry  him.  I 
know  him  better  than  you  do.  If  any  one  ever  does  rope 
him  in,  he'll  stick  about  three  months,  and  then  beat  it." 

"I  don't  know  why  we  have  to  have  men,  anyhow.  Put  out 
the  gas,  Edie.  No,  don't  open  the  window.  The  night  air 
makes  me  cough." 

Edith  started  downstairs  and  set  to  work  in  the  kitchen. 
Something  would  have  to  be  done  about  the  house.  Dan  was 
taking  to  staying  out  at  nights,  because  the  untidy  rooms  re- 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 103 

pelled  him.  And  there  was  the  question  of  food.  Her  mother 
had  never  learned  to  cook,  and  recently  more  and  more  of 
the  food  had  been  something  warmed  out  of  a  tin.  If  only 
they  could  keep  a  girl,  one  who  would  scrub  and  wash  dishes. 
There  was  a  room  on  the  third  floor,  an  attic,  full  now  of  her 
mother's  untidy  harborings  of  years,  that  might  be  used  for  a 
servant.  Or  she  could  move  up  there,  and  they  could  get 
a  roomer.  The  rent  would  pay  a  woman  to  come  in  now  and 
then  to  clean  up. 

She  had  pla)^ed  with  that  thought  before,  and  the  roomer 
she  had  had  in  mind  was  Willy  Cameron.  But  the  knowl 
edge  that  he  knew  the  Cardews  had  somehow  changed  all 
that.  She  couldn't  picture  him  going  from  this  sordid  house 
to  the  Cardew  mansion,  and  worse  still,  returning  to  it  after 
wards.  She  saw  him  there,  at  the  Cardews,  surrounded  by 
bowing  flunkies — a  picture  of  wealth  gained  from  the  movies 
— and  by  women  who  moved  indolently,  trailing  through  long 
vistas  of  ball  room  and  conservatory  in  low  gowns  without 
sleeves,  and  draped  with  ropes  of  pearls.  Women  who  smoked 
cigarettes  after  dinner  and  played  bridge  for  money. 

She  hated  the  Cardews. 

On  her  way  to  her  room  she  paused  at  her  mother's  door. 

"Asleep  yet,  mother?" 

"No.     Feel  like  I'm  not  going  to  sleep  at  all." 

"Mother,"  she  said,  with  a  desperate  catch  in  her  voice, 
"we've  got  to  change  things  around  here.  It  isn't  fair  to 
Dan,  for  one  thing.  We've  got  to  get  a  girl  to  do  the  work. 
And  to  do  that  we'll  have  to  rent  a  room." 

She  heard  the  thin  figure  twist  impatiently. 

"I've  never  yet  been  reduced  to  taking  roomers,  and  I'm 
not  going  to  let  the  neighbors  begin  looking  down  on  me 
now." 

"Now,  listen,  mother- " 

"Go  on  away,  Edie." 

"But  suppose  we  could  get  a  young  man,  a  gentleman,  who 
would  be  out  all  but  three  evenings  a  week.  I  don't  know,  but 
Mr.  Cameron  at  the  store  isn't  satisfied  where  he  is.  He's  got 


io4 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

a    dog,    and    they    haven't    any   yard.    We've    got   a   yard." 

"I  won't  be  bothered  with  any  dog,"  said  the  querulous 
voice,  from  the  darkness. 

With  a  gesture  of  despair  the  girl  turned  away.  What  was 
the  use,  anyhow?  Let  them  go  on,  then,  her  mother  and 
Dan.  Only  let  them  let  her  go  on,  too.  She  had  tried  her 
best  to  change  herself,  the  house,  the  whole  rotten  mess.  But 
they  wouldn't  let  her. 

Her  mood  of  disgust  continued  the  next  morning.  When, 
at  eleven  o'clock,  Louis  Akers  sauntered  in  for  the  first  time 
in  days,  she  looked  at  him  somberly  but  without  disdain. 
Lou  or  somebody  else,  what  did  it  matter?  So  long  as  some 
thing  took  her  for  a  little  while  away  from  the  sordidness  of 
home,  its  stale  odors,  its  untidiness,  its  querulous  inmates. 

"What's  got  into  you  lately,  Edith?"  he  inquired,  lower 
ing  his  voice.  "You  used  to  be  the  best  little  pal  ever.  Now 
the  other  day,  when  I  called  up " 

"Had  the  headache,"  she  said  laconically.    "Well?" 

"Want  to  play  around  this  evening?" 

She  hesitated.  Then  she  remembered  where  Willy  Cam 
eron  would  be  that  night,  and  her  face  hardened.  Had  any 
one  told  Edith  that  she  was  beginning  to  care  for  the  lame 
young  man  in  the  rear  room,  with  his  exaggerated  chivalry 
toward  women,  his  belief  in  home,  and  his  sentimental  whis 
tling,  she  would  have  laughed.  But  he  gave  her  something 
that  the  other  men  she  knew  robbed  her  of,  a  sort  of  self- 
respect.  It  was  perhaps  not  so  much  that  she  cared  for  him, 
as  that  he  enabled  her  to  care  more  for  herself. 

But  he  was  going  to  dinner  with  Lily  Cardew. 

"I  might,  depending  on  what  you've  got  to  offer." 

"I've  got  a  car  now,  Edith.  I'm  not  joking.  There  was 
a  lot  of  outside  work,  and  the  organization  came  over.  I've 
beep,  after  it  for  six  months.  We  can  have  a  ride,  and 
supper  somewhere.  How's  the  young  man  with  the  wooden 
leg?" 

"If  you  want  to  know  I'll  call  him  out  and  let  him  tell  you." 

"Quick,  aren't  you?"     He  smiled  down  at  where  she  stood, 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN  105 

firmly  entrenched  behind  a  show  case.  "Well,  don't  fall  in 
love  with  him.  That's  all.  I'm  a  bad  man  when  I'm  jealous." 
He  sauntered  out,  leaving  Edith  gazing  thoughtfully  after 
him.  He  did  not  know,  nor  would  have  cared  had  he  known, 
that  her  acceptance  of  his  invitation  was  a  complex  of  disgust 
of  home,  of  the  call  of  youth,  and  of  the  fact  that  Willy 
Cameron  was  dining  at  the  Cardews  that  night. 


CHAPTER  XII 

HOWARD  CARDEW  was  in  his  dressing  room,  sitting 
before  the  fire.    His  man  had  put  out  his  dinner  clothes 
and  retired,  and  Howard  was  sitting  before  the  fire  rather 
listlessly. 

In  Grace's  room,  adjoining,  he  could  hear  movements  and 
low  voices.  Before  Lily's  return,  now  and  then  when  he  was 
tired  Grace  and  he  had  dined  by  the  fire  in  her  boudoir.  It  had 
been  very  restful.  He  was  still  in  love  with  his  wife,  al 
though,  as  in  most  marriages,  there  was  one  who  gave  more 
than  the  other.  In  this  case  it  was  Grace  who  gave,  and 
Howard  who  received.  But  he  loved  her.  He  never  thought 
of  other  women.  Only  his  father  had  never  let  him  forget 
her  weaknesses. 

Sometimes  he  was  afraid  that  he  was  looking  at  Grace  with 
his  father's  eyes,  rather  than  his  own. 

He  had  put  up  a  hard  fight  with  his  father.  Not  about 
Grace.  That  was  over  and  done  with,  although  it  had  been 
bad  while  it  lasted.  But  his  real  struggle  had  been  to  preserve 
himself,  to  keep  his  faiths  and  his  ideals,  and  even  his  per 
sonality.  In  the  inessentials  he  had  yielded  easily,  and  so 
bought  peace.  Or  perhaps  a  truce,  of  a  sort.  But  for  the  es 
sentials  he  was  standing  with  a  sort  of  dogged  conviction  that 
if  he  lowered  his  flag  it  would  precipitate  a  crisis.  He  was 
not  brilliant,  but  he  was  intelligent,  progressive  and  kindly. 
He  knew  that  his  father  considered  him  both  stupid  and 
obstinate. 

There  was  going  to  be  a  strike.  The  quarrel  now  was  be 
tween  Anthony's  curt  "Let  them  strike,"  and  his  own  convic 
tion  that  a  strike  at  this  time  might  lead  to  even  worse  things. 
The  men's  demands  were  exorbitant.  No  business,  no  matter 
how  big,  could  concede  them  and  live.  But  Howard  was 
debating  another  phase  of  the  situation. 

106 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN  107 

Not  all  the  mills  would  go  down.  A  careful  canvass  of  some 
of  the  other  independent  concerns  had  shown  the  men  eighty, 
ninety,  even  one  hundred  per  cent,  loyal.  Those  were  the 
smaller  plants,  where  there  had  always  been  a  reciprocal  good 
feeling  between  the  owners  and  the  men;  there  the  men  knew 
the  owners,  and  the  owners  knew  the  men,  who  had  been 
with  them  for  years. 

But  the  Cardew  Mills  would  go  down.  There  had  been  no 
liaison  between  the  Cardews  and  the  workmen.  The  very  mag 
nitude  of  the  business  forbade  that.  And  for  many  years, 
too,  the  Cardews  had  shown  a  gross  callousness  to  the  wel 
fare  of  the  laborers.  Long  ago  he  had  urged  on  his  father 
the  progressive  attitude  of  other  steel  men,  but  Anthony  had 
jeered,  and  when  Howard  had  forced  the  issue  and  gained 
concessions,  it  was  too  late.  The  old  grievances  remained  in 
too  many  minds.  To  hate  the  Cardews  had  become  a  habit. 

Their  past  sins  would  damn  them  now.  The  strike  was 
wrong,  a  wicked  thing.  It  was  without  reason  and  without 
aim.  The  men  were  knocking  a  hole  in  the  boat  that  floated 
them.  But 

There  was  a  tap  at  his  door,  and  he  called  "Come  in." 
From  her  babyhood  Lily  had  had  her  own  peculiar  method  of 
signaling  that  she  stood  without,  a  delicate  rapid  tattoo  of 
finger  nails  on  the  panel.  He  watched  smilingly  for  her  en 
trance. 

"Well!"  she  said.  "Thank  goodness  you  haven't  started  to 
dress.  I  tried  to  get  here  earlier,  but  my  hair  wouldn't  go  up. 
I  want  to  make  a  good  impression  to-night." 

"Is  there  a  dinner  on?    I  didn't  know  it." 

"Not  a  dinner.  A  young  man.  I  came  to  see  what  you  are 
going  to  wear." 

"Really!  Well,  I  haven't  a  great  variety.  The  ordinary 
dinner  dress  of  a  gentleman  doesn't  lend  itself  to  any  extra 
ordinary  ornamentation.  If  you  like,  I'll  pin  on  that  medal 
from  the  Iron  and  Steel Who's  coming,  Lily  ?" 

"Grayson  says  grandfather's  dining  out." 

"I  believe  so." 


io8 A  POOR.  WISE  MAN 

"What  a  piece  of  luck!  I  mean — you  know  what  he'd  say 
if  I  asked  him  not  to  dress  for  dinner." 

"Am  I  to  gather  that  you  are  asking  me?" 

"You  wouldn't  mind,  would  you?  He  hasn't  any  evening 
clothes." 

"Look  here,  Lily,"  said  her  father,  sitting  upright.  "Who 
is  coming  here  to-night  ?  And  why  should  he  upset  the  habits 
of  the  entire  family?" 

"Willy  Cameron.  You  know,  father.  And  he  has  the  queer 
est  ideas  about  us.  Honestly.  And  I  want  him  to  like  us,  and 
it's  such  a  good  chance,  with  grandfather  out." 

He  ignored  that. 

"How  about  our  liking  him?" 

"Oh,  you'll  like  him.  Everybody  does.  You  will  try  to  make 
a  good  impression,  won't  you,  father?" 

He  got  up,  and  resting  his  hands  on  her  shoulders,  smiled 
down  into  her  upturned  face.  "I  will,"  he  said.  "But  I  think 
I  should  tell  you  that  your  anxiety  arouses  deep  and  black  sus 
picions  in  my  mind.  Am  I  to  understand  that  you  have  fixed 
your  young  affections  on  this  Willy  Cameron,  and  that  you 
want  your  family  to  help  you  in  your  dark  designs  ?" 

Lily  laughed. 

"I  love  him,"  she  said.  "I  really  do.  I  could  listen  to  him 
for  hours.  But  people  don't  want  to  marry  Willy  Cameron. 
They  just  love  him." 

There  was  born  in  Howard's  mind  a  vision  of  a  nice  pink  and 
white  young  man,  quite  sexless,  whom  people  loved  but  did  not 
dream  of  marrying. 

"I  see,"  he  said  slowly.    "Like  a  puppy." 

"Not  at  all  like  a  puppy." 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  not  subtle,  my  dear.  Well,  ring  for  Adams, 
and — you  think  he  wouldn't  care  for  the  medal  ?'" 

"I  think  he'd  love  it.  He'd  probably  think  some  king  gave 
it  to  you.  I'm  sure  he  believes  that  you  and  grandfather 
habitually  hobnob  with  kings."  She  turned  to  go  out.  "He 
doesn't  approve  of  kings." 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 109 

"You  are  making  me  extremely  uneasy,"  was  her  father's 
parting  shot.  ''I  only  hope  I  acquit  myself  well." 

"Hurry,  then.    He  is  sure  to  be  exactly  on  the  hour." 

Howard  was  still  smiling  slightly  to  himself  when,  a  half- 
hour  later,  he  descended  the  staircase.  But  he  had  some  diffi 
culty,  at  first,  in  reconciling  his  preconceived  idea  of  Willy 
Cameron  with  the  tall  young  man,  with  the  faint  tmevenness 
of  step,  who  responded  to  his  greeting  so  calmly  and  so  easily. 

"We  are  always  glad  to  see  any  of  Lily's  friends." 

"It  is  very  good  of  you  to  let  me  come,  sir." 

Why,  the  girl  was  blind.  This  was  a  man,  a  fine,  up-stand 
ing  fellow,  with  a  clean-cut,  sensitive  face,  and  honest,  almost 
beautiful  eyes.  How  did  women  judge  men,  anyhow  ? 

And,  try  as  he  would,  Howard  Cardew  could  find  no  fault 
with  Willy  Cameron  that  night.  He  tried  him  out  on  a 
number  of  things.  In  religion,  for  instance,  he  was  ortho 
dox,  although  he  felt  that  the  church  had  not  come  up  fully 
during  the  war. 

''Religion  isn't  a  matter  only  of  churches  any  more,"  said 
Mr.  Cameron.  "It  has  to  go  out  into  the  streets,  I  think,  sir. 
It's  a — well,  Christ  left  the  tabernacle,  you  remember." 

That  was  all  right.  Howard  felt  that  himself  sorneTimes. 
He  was  a  vestryman  at  Saint  Peter's,  and  although  he  felt 
very  devout  during  the  service,  especially  during  the  offertory, 
when  the  music  filled  the  fine  old  building,  he  was  often  con 
scious  that  he  shed  his  spirituality  at  the  door,  when  he  glanced 
at  the  sky  to  see  what  were  the  prospects  for  an  afternoon's 
golf. 

In  politics  Willy  Cameron  was  less  satisfactory. 

"I  haven't  decided,  yet,"  he  said.  "I  voted  for  Mr.  Wilson  in 
1916,  but  although  I  suppose  parties  are  necessary,  I  don't  like 
to  feel  that  I  am  party-bound.  Anyhow,  the  old  party  lines 
are  gone.  I  rather  look " 

He  stopped.  That  terrible  speech  of  Edith  Boyd's  still 
rankled. 

"Go  on,  Willy,"  said  Lily.  "I  told  them  they'd  love  to 
hear  you  talk." 


no  A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

"That's  really  all,  sir,"  said  Willy  Cameron,  unhappily.  "I 
am  a  Scot,  and  to  start  a  Scot  on  reform  is  fatal." 

"Ah,  you  believe  in  reform?" 

"We  are  not  doing  very  well  as  we  are,  sir." 

"I  should  like  extremely  to  know  how  you  feel  about 
things,"  said  Howard,  gravely. 

"Only  this :  So  long  as  one  party  is,  or  is  considered,  the 
representative  of  capital,  the  vested  interests,  and  the  other 
of  labor,  the  great  mass  of  the  people  who  are  neither  the 
one  nor  the  other  cannot  be  adequately  represented." 

"And  the  solution  ?" 

"Perhaps  a  new  party.  Or  better  still,  a  liberalizing  of  the 
Republican." 

"Before  long,"  said  Lily  suddenly,  "there  will  be  no  state. 
There  will  be  enough  for  everybody,  and  nobody  will  have  too 
much." 

Howard  smiled  at  her  indulgently. 

"How  do  you  expect  to  accomplish  this  ideal  condition  ?" 

"That's  the  difficulty  about  it,"  said  Lily,  thoughtfully.  "'It 
means  a  revolution.  It  would  be  peaceful,  though.  The  thing 
to  do  is  to  convince  people  that  it  is  simple  justice,  and  then 
they  will  divide  what  they  have." 

"Why,  Lily!"  Grace's  voice  was  anxious.  "That's  So 
cialism." 

f~  But  Howard  only  smiled  tolerantly,  and  changed  the  sub 
ject.  Every  one  had  these  attacks  of  idealism  in  youth.  They 
were  the  exaggerated  altruism  of  adolescence ;  a  part  of  its 
^dreams  and  aspirations.  Ke  changed  the  subject. 

"I  like  the  boy,"  he  said  to  Grace,  later,  over  the  cribbage 
board  in  the  morning  room.  "He  has  character,  and  a  queer 
sort  of  magnetism.  It  mightn't  be  a  bad  thing 

Grace  was  counting. 

"I  forgot  to  tell  you ;  I  think  she  refused  Pink  Denslow  the 
other  day." 

"I  rather  gathered,  from  the  way  she  spoke  of  young  Cam 
eron,  that  she  isn't  interested  there  either." 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN  in 

"Not  a  bit,"  said  Grace,  complacently.  ''You  needn't  worry 
about  him/' 

Howard  smiled.  He  was  often  conscious  that  after  all  the 
years  of  their  common  life,  his  wife's  mind  and  his  traveled 
along  parallel  lines  that  never  met. 

Willy  Cameron  was  extremely  happy.  He  had  brought  his 
pipe  along,  although  without  much  hope,  but  the  moment  they 
were  settled  by  the  library  fire  Lily  had  suggested  it. 

"You  know  you  can't  talk  unless  you  have  it  in  your  hand 
to  wave  around,"  she  said.  "And  I  want  to  know  such  a  lot 
of  things.  Where  you  live,  and  all  that." 

"I  live  in  a  boarding  house.  More  house  than  board,  really. 
And  the  work's  all  right.  I'm  going  to  study  metallurgy  some 
day.  There  are  night  courses  at  the  college,  only  I  haven't 
many  nights/' 

He  had  lighted  his  pipe,  and  kept  his  eyes  on  it  mostly, 
or  on  the  fire.  He  was  afraid  to  look  at  Lily,  because  there 
was  something  he  could  not  keep  out  of  his  eyes,  but  must 
keep  from  her.  It  had  been  both  better  and  worse  than  he 
had  anticipated,  seeing  her  in  her  home.  Lily  herself  had 
not  changed.  She  was  her  wonderful  self,  in  spite  of  her  frock 
and  her  surroundings.  But  the  house,  her  people,  with  their 
ease  of  wealth  and  position,  Grace's  slight  condescension,  the 
elaborate  simplicity  of  dining,  the  matter-of-course-ness  of 
the  service.  It  was  not  that  Lily  was  above  him.  That  was 
ridiculous.  But  she  was  far  removed  from  him. 

"There  is  something  wrong  with  you,  Willy,"  she  said  un 
expectedly.  "You  are  not  happy,  or  you  are  not  well.  Which 
is  it?  You  are  awfully  thin,  for  one  thing/' 

"I'm  all  right,"  he  said,  evading  her  eyes. 

"Are  you  lonely?    I  don't  mean  now,  of  course." 

"Well,  I've  got  a  dog.  That  helps.  He's  a  helpless  sort  of 
mutt.  I  carry  his  meat  home  from  the  shop  in  my  pocket, 
and  I  feel  like  a  butcher's  wagon,  sometimes.  But  he's  taken 
a  queer  sort  of  liking  to  me,  and  he  is  something  to  talk  to." 

"Why  didn't  you  bring  him  along?" 


ii2 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

Dogs  were  forbidden  in  the  Cardew  house,  by  old  Anthony's 
order,  as  were  pipes,  especially  old  and  beloved  ones,  but  Lily 
was  entirely  reckless. 

"He  did  follow  me.  He's  probably  sitting  on  the  doorstep 
now.  I  tried  to  send  him  back,  but  he's  an  obstinate  little 
beast." 

Lily  got  up. 

"I  am  going  to  bring  him  in,"  she  said.  "And  if  you'll 
ring  that  bell  we'll  get  him  some  dinner." 

"I'll  get  him,  while  you  ring." 

Half  an  hour  later  Anthony  Cardew  entered  his  house. 
He  had  spent  a  miserable  evening.  Some  young  whipper- 
snapper  who  employed  a  handful  of  men  had  undertaken 
to  show  him  where  he,  Anthony  Cardew,  was  a  clog  in  the 
wheel  of  progress.  Not  in  so  many  words,  but  he  had  said : 
"Tempora  mutantur,  Mr.  Cardew.  And  the  wise  employer 
meets  those  changes  half-way." 

"You  young  fools  want  to  go  all  the  way." 

"Not  all  all.     We'll  meet  them  half-way,  and — stop." 

"Bah !"  said  Anthony  Cardew,  and  had  left  the  club  in  a 
temper.  The  club  was  going  to  the  dogs,  along  with  the 
rest  of  the  world.  There  was  only  a  handful  of  straight- 
thinking  men  like  himself  left  in  it.  Lot  of  young  cravens, 
letting  their  men  dominate  them  and  intimidate  them. 

So  he  slammed  into  his  house,  threw  off  his  coat  and  hat, 
and — sniffed.  A  pungent,  acrid  odor  was  floating  through 
a  partly  closed  door.  Anthony  Cardew  flung  open  the  door 
and  entered. 

Before  the  fire,  on  a  deep  velvet  couch,  sat  his  granddaugh 
ter.  Beside  her  was  a  thin  young  man  in  a  gray  suit,  and 
the  thin  young  man  was  waving  an  old  pipe  about,  and  saying : 

"Temp  or  a  mutantur ;  Lily.     The  wise  employer— 

"I  am  afraid,  sir,"  said  Anthony,  in  a  terrible  voice,  "that 
you  are  not  acquainted  with  the  rules  of  my  house.  I  object 
to  pipes.  There  are  cigars  in  the  humidor  behind  you." 

"Very  sorry,  Mr.  Cardew,"  Willy  Cameron  explained.  "I 
didn't  know.  I'll  put  it  away,  sir." 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 113 

But  Anthony  was  not  listening.  His  eyes  had  traveled  from 
an  empty  platter  on  the  hearth-rug  to  a  deep  chair  where 
Jinx,  both  warm  and  fed  at  the  same  time,  and  extremely 
distended  with  meat,  lay  sleeping.  Anthony  put  out  a  hand 
and  pressed  the  bell  beside  him. 

"I  want  you  to  meet  Mr.  Cameron,  grandfather."  Lily  was 
rather  pale,  but  she  had  the  Cardew  poise.  "He  was  in  the 
camp  when  I  was." 

Grayson  entered  on  that,  however,  and  Anthony  pointed  to 
Jinx. 

"Put  that  dog  out,"  he  said,  and  left  the  room,  his  figure 
rigid  and  uncompromising. 

"Grayson/'  Lily  said,  white  to  the  lips,  "that  dog  is  to  re 
main  here.  He's  perfectly  quiet.  And,  will  you  find  Ellen  and 
ask  her  to  come  here  ?" 

"Haven't  I  made  enough  trouble?"  asked  Willy  Cameron, 
unhappily.  "I  can  see  her  again,  you  know." 

"She's  crazy  to  see  you,  Willy.    And  besides " 

Grayson  had  gone,  after  a  moment's  hesitation. 

"Don't  you  see  ?"  she  said.  "The  others  have  always  submit 
ted.  I  did,  too.  But  I  can't  keep  it  up,  Willy.  I  can't  live 
here  and  let  him  treat  me  like  that.  Or  my  friends.  I  know 
what  will  happen.  I'll  run  away,  like  Aunt  Elinor." 

"You  must  not  do  that,  Lily."    He  was  very  grave. 

"Why  not?  They  think  she  is  unhappy.  She  isn't.  She 
ran  away  and  married  a  man  she  cared  about.  I  may  call 
you  up  some  day  and  ask  you  to  marry  me !"  she  added,  less 
tensely.  "You  would  be  an  awfully  good  husband,  you  know." 

She  looked  up  at  him,  still  angry,  but  rather  amused  with 
this  new  conceit. 

"Don't!" 

She  was  startled  by  the  look  on  his  face. 

"You  see,"  he  said  painfully,  "what  only  amuses  you  in 
that  idea  is — well,  it  doesn't  amuse  me,  Lily." 

"I  only  meant "  she  was  very  uncomfortable.  "You 

are  so  real  and  dependable  and  kind,  and  I " 

"I  know  what  you  mean.     Like  Jinx,  there.    I'm  sorry!    I 


ii4  A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

'didn't  mean  that.  But  you  must  not  talk  about  marrying  me 
unless  you  mean  it.  You  see,  I  .happen  to  care." 

"Willy!" 

"It  won't  hurt  you  to  know,  although  I  hadn't  meant  to 
tell  you.  And  of  course,  you  know,  I  am  not  asking  you  to 
marry  me.  Only  I'd  like  you  to  feel  that  you  can  count  on  me, 
always.  The  one  person  a  woman  can  count  on  is  the  man 
who  loves  her." 

And  after  a  little  silence : 

"You  see,  I  know  you  are  not  in  love  with  me.  I  cared 
from  the  beginning,  but  I  always  knew  that." 

"I  wish  I  did."  She  was  rather  close  to  tears.  She  had 
not  felt  at  all  like  that  with  Pink.  But,  although  she  knew  he 
was  suffering,  his  quietness  deceived  her.  She  had  the  theory 
of  youth  about  love,  that  it  was  a  violent  thing,  tempestuous 
and  passionate.  She  thought  that  love  demanded,  not  knowing 
that  love  gives  first,  and  then  asks.  She  could  not  know  how 
he  felt  about  his  love  for  her,  that  it  lay  in  a  sort  of  cathedral 
shrine  in  his  heart.  There  were  holy  days  when  saints  left 
their  niches  and  were  shown  in  city  streets,  but  until  that 
holy  day  came  they  remained  in  the  church. 

"You  will  remember  that,  won't  you?" 

"I'll  remember,  Willy." 

"I  won't  be  a  nuisance,  you  know.  I've  never  had  any  hope, 
so  I  won't  make  you  unhappy.  And  don't  be  unhappy  about 
me,  Lily.  I  would  rather  love  you,  even  knowing  I  can't 
have  you,  than  be  loved  by  anybody  else." 

Perhaps,  had  he  shown  more  hurt,  he  would  have  made  it 
seem  more  real  to  her.  But  he  was  frightfully  anxious  not  to 
cause  her  pain. 

"I'm  really  very  happy,  loving  you,"  he  added,  and  smiled 
down  at  her  reassuringly.  But  he  had  for  all  that  a  wild 
primitive  impulse  which  almost  overcame  him  for  a  moment, 
to  pick  her  up  in  his  arms  and  carry  her  out  the  door  and 
away  with  him.  Somewhere,  anywhere.  Away  from  that 
grim  old  house,  and  that  despotic  little  man,  to  liberty  and 
happiness  and — William  Wallace  Cameron. 


A  POOPv  WISE  MAN  115 

Ellen  came  in,  divided  between  uneasiness  and  delight,  and 
inquired   painstakingly   about   his   mother,   and   his   uncle   in 
California,  and  the  Presbyterian  minister.     But  she  was  un 
comfortable  and  uneasy  and  refused  to  sit  down,  and  Willy 
watched  her  furtively  slipping1  out  again  with  a  slight  frown. 
It  was  not  right,  somehow,  this  dividing  of  the  world  into! 
classes,  those  who  served  and  those  who  were  served.     But 
he  had  an  idea  that  it  was  those  below  who  made  the  distinc 
tion,  nowadays.     It  was  the  masses  who  insisted  on  isolating  ; 
the  classes.    They  made  kings,  perhaps  that  they  might  some  j 
day  reach  up  and  pull  them  off  their  thrones 

At  the  top  of  the  stairs  Ellen  found  Mademoiselle,  who  fixed 
her  with  cold  eyes. 

"What  were  you  doing  down  there/'  she  demanded. 

"Miss  Lily  sent  for  me,  to  see  that  young  man  I  told  you 
about." 

"How  dare  you  go  down?    And  into  the  library?" 

"I've  just  told  you,"  said  Ellen,  her  face  setting.  "She 
sent  for  me." 

"Why  didn't  you  say  you  were  in  bed?" 

"I'm  no  liar,  Mademoiselle.  Besides,  I  guess  it's  no  crime 
to  see  a  boy  I've  known  all  his  life,  and  his  mother  and  me 
like  sisters." 

"You  are  a  fool,"  said  Mademoiselle,  and  turning  clumped 
back  in  her  bedroom  slippers  to  her  room. 

Ellen  went  up  to  her  room.  Heretofore  she  had  given  her 
allegiance  to  Mademoiselle  and  Mrs.  Cardew,  and  in  a  more 
remote  fashion,  to  Howard.  But  Ellen,  crying  angry  tears  in 
her  small  white  bed  that  night,  sensed  a  new  division  in  the 
family,  with  Mademoiselle  and  Anthony  and  Howard  and 
Grace  on  one  side,  and  Lily  standing  alone,  righting  valiantly 
for  the  right  to  live  her  own  life,  to  receive  her  own  friends, 
and  the  friends  of  her  friends,  even  though  one  of  these  latter 
might  be  a  servant  in  her  own  house. 

Yet  Ellen,  with  the  true  snobbishness  of  the  servants'  hall, 
disapproved  of  Lily's  course  while  she  admired  it. 

"But,  they're  all  against  her,"  Ellen  reflected.     "The  poor 


ii6 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

thing!  And  just  because  of  Willy  Cameron.  Well,  I'll  stand 
by  her,  if  they  throw  me  out  for  it." 

In  her  romantic  head  there  formed  strange,  delightful 
visions.  Lily  eloping  with  Willy  Cameron,  assisted  by  her 
self.  Lily  in  the  little  Cameron  house,  astounding  the  neigh 
borhood  with  her  clothes  and  her  charm,  and  being  sponsored 
by  Ellen.  The  excitement  of  the  village,  and  the  visits  to 
Ellen  to  learn  what  to  wear  for  a  first  call,  and  were  cards 
necessary  ? 

Into  Ellen's  not  very  hard-working  but  monotonous  life 
had  comes  its  first  dream  of  romance. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

FOR  three  weeks  Lily  did  not  see  Louis  Akers,  nor  did  she 
go  back  to  the  house  on  Cardew  Way.  She  hated  doing 
clandestine  or  forbidden  things,  and  she  was,  too,  determined 
to  add  nothing  to  the  tenseness  she  began  to  realize  existed 
at  home.  She  went  through  her  days,  struggling  to  fit  herself 
again  into  the  old  environment,  reading  to  her  mother,  lend 
ing  herself  with  assumed  enthusiasm  to  such  small  gayeties  as 
Lent  permitted,  and  doing  penance  in  a  dozen  ways  for  that 
stolen  afternoon  with  Louis  Akers. 

She  had  been  forbidden  to  see  him  again.  It  had  come 
about  by  Grace's  confession  to  Howard  as  to  Lily's  visit  to 
the  Doyles.  He  had  not  objected  to  that. 

"Unless  Doyle  talks  his  rubbish  to  her,"  he  said.  "She  said 
something  the  other  night  that  didn't  sound  like  ker.  Was 
any  one  else  there?" 

"An  attorney  named  Akers,"  she  said. 

And  at  that  Howard  had  scowled. 

"She'd  better  keep  away  altogether,"  he  observed,  curtly. 
"She  oughtn't  to  meet  men  like  that." 

"Shall  I  tell  her?" 

"I'll  tell  her,"  he  said.  And  tell  her  he  did,  not  too  tact 
fully,  and  man-like  shielding  her  by  not  telling  her  his  reasons. 

"He's  not  the  sort  of  man  I  want  you  to  know,"  he  finished. 
"That  ought  to  be  sufficient.  Have  you  seen  him  since?" 

Lily  flushed,  but  she  did  not  like  to  lie. 

"I  had  tea  with  him  one  afternoon.  I  often  have  tea  with 
men,  father.  You  know  that." 

"You  knew  I  wouldn't  approve,  or  you  would  have  men 
tioned  it." 

Because  he  felt  that  he  had  been  rather  ruthless  with  her, 
he  stopped  in  at  the  jeweler's  the  next  morning  and  sent 
her  a  tiny  jeweled  watch.  Lily  was  touched  and  repentant. 

117 


ii8 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

She  made  up  her  mind  not  to  see  Louis  Akers  again,  and 
found  a  certain  relief  in  the  decision.  She  was  conscious 
that  he  had  a  peculiar  attraction  for  her,  a  purely  emotional 
appeal.  He  made  her  feel  alive.  Even  when  she  disapproved 
of  him,  she  was  conscious  of  him.  She  put  him  resolutely 
out  of  her  mind,  to  have  him  reappear  in  her  dreams,  not 
as  a  lover,  but  as  some  one  dominant  and  insistent,  command 
ing  her  to  do  absurd,  inconsequential  things. 

Now  and  then  she  saw  Willy  Cameron,  and  they  had  gone 
back,  apparently,  to  the  old  friendly  relationship.  They  walked 
together,  and  once  they  went  to  the  moving  pictures,  to  Grace's 
horror.  But  there  were  no  peanuts  to  eat,  and  instead  of  the 
jingling  camp  piano>  there  was  an  orchestra,  and  it  was  all 
strangely  different.  Even  Willy  Cameron  was  different.  He 
was  very  silent,  and  on  the  way  home  he  did  not  once  speak 
of  the  plain  people. 

Louis  Akers  had  both  written  and  telephoned  her,  but  she 
made  excuses,  and  did  not  see  him,  and  the  last  time  he  had 
hung  up  the  receiver  abruptly.  She  felt  an  odd  mixture  of  re 
lief  and  regret. 

Then,  about  the  middle  of  April,  she  saw  him  again. 

Spring  was  well  on  by  that  time.  Before  the  Doyle  house  on 
Cardew  Way  the  two  horse-chestnuts  were  showing  great  red- 
brown  buds,  ready  to  fall  into  leaf  with  the  first  warm 
day,  and  Elinor,  assisted  by  Jennie,  the  elderly  maid,  was  fin 
ishing  her  spring  house-cleaning.  The  Cardew  mansion 
showed  window-boxes  at  each  window,  filled  by  the  florist  with 
spring  flowers,  to  be  replaced  later  by  summer  ones.  A 
potted  primrose  sat  behind  the  plate  glass  of  the  Eagle  Phar 
macy,  among  packets  of  flower  seeds  and  spring  tonics,  its 
leaves  occasionally  nibbled  by  the  pharmacy  cat,  out  of  some 
atavistic  craving  survived  through  long  generations  of  city 
streets. 

The  children's  playground  near  the  Lily  furnace  was  ready ; 
Howard  Cardew  himself  had  overseen  the  locations  of  the 
swings  and  chute-the-chutes.  And  at  Friendship  an  army  of 
workers  was  sprinkling  and  tamping  the  turf  of  the  polo  field. 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 119 

After  two  years  of  war,  there  was  to  be  polo  again  that  spring 
and  early  summer.  The  Cherry  Hill  Hunt  team  was  still  in 
tact,  although  some  of  the  visiting  outfits  had  been  badly  shot 
to  pieces  by  the  war.  But  the  war  was  over.  It  lay  behind, 
a  nightmare  to  be  forgotten  as  soon  as  possible.  It  had  left 
its  train  of  misery  and  debt,  but — spring  had  come. 

On  a  pleasant  Monday,  Lily  motored  out  to  the  field  with 
Pink  Denslow.  It  had  touched  her  that  he  still  wanted  her,  and 
it  had  offered  an  escape  from  her  own  worries.  She  was  fight 
ing  a  sense  of  failure  that  day.  It  seemed  impossible  to  recon 
cile  the  warring  elements  at  home.  Old  Anthony  and  his  son 
were  quarreling  over  the  strike,  and  Anthony  was  jibing  con 
stantly  at  Howard  over  the  playground.  It  was  not  so  much 
her  grandfather's  irritability  that  depressed  her  as  his  tyranny 
over  the  household,  and  his  attitude  toward  her  mother  roused 
her  to  bitter  resentment. 

The  night  before  she  had  left  the  table  after  one  of  his 
scourging  speeches,  only  to  have  what  amounted  to  a  scene 
with  her  mother  afterward. 

"But  I  cannot  sit  by  while  he  insults  you,  mother." 

"It  is  just  his  way.  I  don't  mind,  really.  Oh,  Lily,  don't 
destroy  what  I  have  built  up  so  carefully.  It  hurts  your 
father"  so." 

"Sometimes,"  Lily  said  slowly,  "he  makes  me  think  Aunt 
Elinor's  husband  was  right.  He  believes  a  lot  of  things " 

"What  things?"  Grace  had  asked,  suspiciously. 

Lily  hesitated. 

"Well,  a  sort  of  Socialism,  for  one  thing,  only  it  isn't  exactly 
that.  It's  individualism,  really,  or  I  think  so ;  the  sort  of  thing 
that  this  house  stifles."  Grace  was  too  horrified  for  speech. 
"I  don't  want  to  hurt  you,  mother,  but  don't  you  see?  He 
tyrannizes  over  all  of  us,  and  it's  bad  for  our  souls.  Why 
should  he  bellow  at  the  servants?  Or  talk  to  you  the  way 
he  did  to-night?"  She  smiled  faintly.  "We're  all  drowning, 
and  I  want  to  swim,  that's  all.  Mr.  Doyle " 

"You  are  talking  nonsense,"  said  Grace  sharply.  "You  have 
got  a  lot  of  ideas  from  that  wretched  house,  and  now  you 


120 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

think  they  are  your  own.  Lily,  I  warn  you,  if  you  insist  on 
going  back  to  the  Doyles  I  shall  take  you  abroad." 

Lily  turned  and  walked  out  of  the  room,  and  there  was 
something  suggestive  of  old  Anthony  in  the  pitch  of  her 
shoulders.  Her  anger  did  not  last  long,  but  her  uneasiness 
persisted.  Already  she  knew  that  she  was  older  in  many 
ways  than  Grace ;  she  had  matured  in  the  past  year  more  than 
her  mother  in  twenty,  and  she  felt  rather  like  a  woman  obeying 
the  mandates  of  a  child. 

But  on  that  pleasant  Monday  she  was  determined  to  be 
happy. 

"Old  world  begins  to  look  pretty,  doesn't  it?"  said  Pink, 
breaking  in  on  her  thoughts. 

"Lovely." 

"It's  not  a  bad  place  to  live  in,  after  all,"  said  Pink,  trying 
to  cheer  his  own  rather  unhappy  humor.  "There  is  always 
spring  to  expect,  when  we  get  low  in  winter.  And  there  are 
horses  and  dogs,  and  and  blossoms  on  the  trees,  and  all  that." 
What  he  meant  was,  "If  there  isn't  love." 

"You  are  perfectly  satisfied  with  things  just  as  they  are, 
aren't  you?"  Lily  asked,  half  enviously. 

"Well,  I'd  change  some  things."  He  stopped.  He  wasn't 
going  to  go  round  sighing  like  a  furnace.  "But  it's  a  pretty 
good  sort  of  place.  I'm  for  it." 

"Have  you  sent  your  ponies  out?" 

"Only  two.  I  want  to  show  you  one  I  bought  from  the 
Government  almost  for  nothing.  Remount  man  piped  me  off. 
Light  in  flesh,  rather,  but  fast.  Handy,  light  mouth — all  he 
needs  is  a  bit  of  training." 

They  had  been  in  the  open  country  for  some  time,  but  now 
they  were  approaching  the  Cardew's  Friendship  plant.  The 
furnaces  had  covered  the  fields  with  a  thin  deposit  of  reddish 
ore  dust.  Such  blighted  grass  as  grew  had  already  lost  its 
fresh  green,  and  the  trees  showed  stunted  blossoms.  The  one 
oasis  of  freshness  was  the  polo  field  itself,  carefully  irrigated 
by  underground  pipes.  The  field,  writh  its  stables  and  grand 
stand,  had  been  the  gift  of  Anthony  Cardew,  thereby  promot- 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 121 

ing  much  discussion  with  his  son.  For  Howard  had  wanted 
the  land  for  certain  purposes  of  his  own,  to  build  a  club 
house  for  the  men  at  the  plant,  with  a  baseball  field.  Finding 
his  father  obdurate  in  that,  he  had  urged  that  the  field  be 
thrown  open  to  the  men  and  their  families,  save  immediately 
preceding  and  during  the  polo  season.  But  he  had  failed 
there,  too.  Anthony  Cardew  had  insisted,  and  with  some  rea 
son,  that  to  use  the  grounds  for  band  concerts  and  baseball 
games,  for  picnics  and  playgrounds,  would  ruin  the  turf  for 
its  legitimate  purpose. 

Howard  had  subsequently  found  other  land,  and  out  of 
his  own  private  means  had  carried  out  his  plans,  but  the  loca 
tion  was  less  desirable.  And  he  knew  what  his  father  refused 
to  believe,  that  the  polo  ground,  taking  up  space  badly  needed 
for  other  purposes,  was  a  continual  grievance. 

Suddenly  Pink  stared  ahead. 

"I  say,"  he  said,  "have  they  changed  the  rule  about  that 
sort  of  thing?" 

He  pointed  to  the  field.  A  diamond  had  been  roughly  out 
lined  on  it  with  bags  of  sand,  and  a  ball-game  was  in  progress, 
boys  playing,  but  a  long  line  of  men  watching  from  the  side 
lines. 

"I  don't  know,  but  it  doesn't  hurt  anything." 

"Ruins  the  turf,  that's  all."  He  stopped  the  car  and  got 
out.  "Look  at  this  sign.  It  says  'ball-playing  or  any  tres 
passing  forbidden  on  these  grounds/  I'll  clear  them  off." 

"I  wouldn't,  Pink.    They  may  be  ugly." 

But  he  only  smiled  at  her  reassuringly,  and  went  off.  She 
watched  him  go  with  many  misgivings,  his  sturdy  young  fig 
ure,  his  careful  dress,  his  air  of  the  young  aristocrat,  easy, 
domineering,  unconsciously  insolent.  They  would  resent  him, 
she  knew,  those  men  and  boys.  And  after  all,  why  should  they 
not  use  the  field  ?  There  was  injustice  in  that  sign. 

Yet  her  liking  and  real  sympathy  were  with  Pink. 

"Pink!"  she  called,  ''Come  back  here.     Let  them  alone." 

He  turned  toward  her  a  face  slightly  flushed  with  indigna 
tion  and  set  with  purpose. 


122 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

"Sorry.  Can't  do  it,  Lily.  This  sort  of  thing's  got  to  be 
stopped." 

She  felt,  rather  hopelessly,  that  he  was  wrong,  but  that  he 
was  right,  too.  The  grounds  were  private  property.  She  sat 
back  and  watched.  j 

Pink  was  angry.  She  could  hear  his  voice,  see  his  gestures. 
He  was  shooing  them  off  like  a  lot  of  chickens,  and  they  were 
laughing.  The  game  had  stopped,  and  the  side  lines  were 
pressing  forward.  There  was  a  moment's  debate,  with  raised 
voices,  a  sullen  muttering  from  the  crowd,  and  the  line  clos 
ing  into  a  circle.  The  last  thing  she  saw  before  it  closed  was 
a  man  lunging  at  Pink,  and  his  counter-feint.  Then  some 
one  was  down.  If  it  was  Pink  he  was  not  out,  for  there  was 
fighting  still  going  on.  The  laborers  working  on  the  grounds 
were  running. 

Lily  stood  up  in  the  car,  pale  and  sickened.  She  was  only 
vaguely  conscious  of  a  car  that  suddenly  left  the  road,  and 
dashed  recklessly  across  the  priceless  turf,  but  she  did  see,  and 
recognize,  Louis  Akers  as  he  leaped  from  it  and  flinging  men 
this  way  and  that  disappeared  into  the  storm  center.  She 
could  hear  his  voice,  too,  loud  and  angry,  and  see  the  quick 
dispersal  of  the  crowd.  Some  of  the  men,  foreigners,  passed 
quite  near  to  her,  and  eyed  her  either  sullenly  or  with  mock 
ing  smiles.  She  was  quite  oblivious  of  them.  She  got  out 
and  ran  with  shaking  knees  across  to  where  Pink  lay  on  the 
grass,  his  profile  white  and  sharply  chiseled,  with  two  or  three 
men  bending  over  him. 

Pink  was  dead.    Those  brutes  had  killed  him.    Pink. 

He  was  not  dead.    He  was  moving  his  arms. 

Louis  Akers  straightened  when  he  saw  her  and  took  off  his 
hat. 

"Nothing  to  worry  about,  Miss  Cardew,"  he  said.  "But 
what  sort  of  idiocy !  Hello,  old  man,  all  right  now?" 

Pink  sat  up,  then  rose  stiffly  and  awkwardly.  He  had  a  cut 
over  one  eye,  and  he  felt  for  his  handkerchief. 

"Fouled  me,"  he  said.  "Filthy  lot,  anyhow.  Wonder  they 
didn't  walk  on  me  when  I  was  down."  He  turned  to  the 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 123 

grounds-keeper,  who  had  come  up.  "You  ought  to  know  better 
than  to  let  those  fellows  cut  up  this  turf/'  he  said  angrily. 
"What're  you  here  for  anyhow?" 

But  he  was  suddenly  very  sick.  He  looked  at  Lily,  his  face 
drawn  and  blanched. 

"Got  me  right,"  he  muttered.     "I " 

"Get  into  my  car,"  said  Akers,  not  too  amiably.  "I'll  drive 
you  to  the  stables.  I'll  be  back,  Miss  Cardew." 

Lily  went  back  to  the  car  and  sat  down.  She  was  shocked 
and  startled,  but  she  was  strangely  excited.  The  crowd  had 
beaten  Pink,  but  it  had  obeyed  Louis  Akers  like  a  master.  He 
was  a  man.  He  was  a  strong  man.  He  must  be  built  of  iron. 
Mentally  she  saw  him  again,  driving  recklessly  over  the  turf, 
throwing  the  men  to  right  and  left,  hoarse  with  anger,  tall, 
dominant,  powerful. 

It  was  more  important  that  a  man  be  a  man  than  that  he 
be  a  gentleman. 

After  a  little  he  drove  back  across  the  field,  sending  the  car 
forward  again  at  reckless  speed.  Some  vision  of  her  grand 
father,  watching  the  machine  careening  over  the  still  soft  and 
spongy  turf  and  leaving  deep  tracks  behind  it,  made  her  smile. 
Akers  leaped  out. 

"No  need  to  worry  about  our  young  friend,"  he  said  cheer 
fully.  "He  is  alternately  being  very  sick  at  his  stomach  and 
cursing  the  poor  working  man.  But  I  think  I'd  better  drive 
you  back.  He'll  be  poor  company,  I'll  say  that." 

He  looked  at  her,  his  bold  eyes  challenging,  belying  the 
amiable  gentleness  of  his  smile. 

'Td  better  let  him  know." 

"I  told  him.  He  isn't  strong  for  me.  Always  hate  the  fel 
low  who  saves  you,  you  know.  But  he  didn't  object." 

Lily  moved  into  his  car  obediently.  She  felt  a  strange  in 
clination  to  do  what  this  man  wanted.  Rather,  it  was  an 
inability  to  oppose  him.  He  went  on,  big,  strong,  and  im 
perious.  And  he  carried  one  along.  It  was  easy  and  queer. 
But  she  did,  unconsciously,  what  she  had  never  done  with 


124 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

Pink  or  any  other  man ;  she  sat  as  far  away  from  him  on  the 
wide  seat  as  she  could. 

He  noticed  that,  and  smiled  ahead,  over  the  wheel.  He  had 
been  infuriated  over  her  avoidance  of  him,  but  if  she  was 
afraid  of  him — • 

"Bully  engine  in  this  car.    Never  have  to  change  a  gear." 

"You  certainly  made  a  road  through  the  field." 

"They'll  fix  that,  all  right.    Are  you  warm  enough?" 

"Yes,  thank  you." 

"You  have  been  treating  me  very  badly,  you  know,  Miss 
Cardew." 

"I  have  been  frightfully  busy." 

That's  not  true,  and  you  know  it.  You've  been  forbidden 
to  see  me,  haven't  you  ?" 

"I  have  been  forbidden  to  go  back  to  Cardew  Way." 

"They  don't  know  about  me,  then?" 

"There  isn't  very  much  to  know,  is  there  ?" 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  fence  with  me,"  he  said  impatiently. 
"I  told  you  once  I  was  frank.  I  want  you  to  answer  one 
question.  If  this  thing  rested  with  you,  would  you  see  me 
again?" 

"I  think  I  would,  Mr.  Akers,"  she  said  honestly. 

Had  she  ever  known  a  man  like  the  one  beside  her,  she 
would  not  have  given  him  that  opportunity.  He  glanced 
sharply  around,  and  then  suddenly  stopped  the  car  and  turned 
toward  her. 

"I'm  crazy  about  you,  and  you  know  it,"  he  said.  And 
roughly,  violently,  he  caught  her  to  him  and  kissed  her  again 
and  again.  Her  arms  were  pinned  to  her  sides,  and  she  was 
helpless.  After  a  brief  struggle  to  free  herself  she  merely 
shut  her  eyes  and  waited  for  him  to  stop. 

"I'm  mad  about  you,"  he  whispered. 

Then  he  freed  her.  Lily  wanted  to  feel  angry,  but  she  felt 
only  humiliated  and  rather  soiled.  There  were  men  like  that, 
then,  men  who  gave  way  to  violent  impulses,  who  lost  control 
of  themselves  and  had  to  apologize  afterwards.  She  hated 
him,  but  she  was  sorry  for  him,  too.  He  would  have  to  be  so 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 125 

humble.  She  was  staring  ahead,  white  and  waiting  for  his 
explanation,  when  he  released  the  brake  and  started  the  car 
forward  slowly. 

"Well?"  he  said,  with  a  faint  smile. 

"You  will  have  to  apologize  for  that,  Mr.  Alters." 

"I'm  damned  if  I  will.  That  man  back  there,  Denslow — he's 
the  sort  who  would  kiss  a  girl  and  then  crawl  about  it  after 
wards.  I  won't.  I'm  not  sorry.  A  strong  man  can  digest  his 
own  sins.  I  kissed  you  because  I  wanted  to.  It  wasn't  an 
impulse.  I  meant  to  when  we  started.  And  you're  only  doing 
the  conventional  thing  and  pretending  to  be  angry.  You're 
not  angry.  Good  God,  girl,  be  yourself  once  in  a  while." 

<Tm  afraid  I  don't  understand  you."  Her  voice  was 
haughty.  "And  I  must  ask  you  to  stop  the  car  and  let  me 
get  out." 

"I'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort,  of  course.  Now  get  this  straight, 
Miss  Cardew.  I  haven't  done  you  any  harm.  I  may  have  a 
brutal  way  of  showing  that  I'm  crazy  about  you,  but  it's  my 
way.  I'm  a  man,  and  I'm  no  hand  kisser." 

And  when  she  said  nothing: 

"You  think  I'm  unrestrained,  and  I  am,  in  a  way.  But  if  I 
did  what  I  really  want  to  do,  I'd  not  take  you  home  at  all. 
I'd  steal  you.  You've  done  something  to  me,  God  knows 
what." 

"Then  I  can  only  say  I'm  sorry,"  Lily  said  slowly. 

She  felt  strangely  helpless  and  rather  maternal.  With  all 
his  strength  this  sort  of  man  needed  to  be  protected  from 
himself.  She  felt  no  answering  thrill  whatever  to  his  passion, 
but  as  though,  having  told  her  he  loved  her,  he  had  placed  a 
considerable  responsibility  in  her  hands. 

"I'll  be  good  now,"  he  said.  "Mind,  I'm  not  sorry.  But  I 
don't  want  to  worry  you." 

He  made  no  further  overtures  to  her  during  the  ride,  but 
he  was  neither  sulky  nor  sheepish.  He  feigned  an  anxiety  as 
to  the  threatened  strike,  and  related  at  great  length  and  with 
extreme  cleverness  of  invention  his  own  efforts  to  prevent  it. 

"I've  a  good  bit  of  influence  with  the  A.  F.  L.,"  he  said. 


126 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

"Doyle's  in  bad  with  them,  but  I'm  still  solid.  But  it's  com 
ing,  sure  as  shooting.  And  they'll  win,  too." 

He  knew  women  well,  and  he  saw  that  she  was  forgiving 
him.  But  she  would  not  forget.  He  had  a  cynical  doctrine, 
to  the  effect  that  a  woman's  first  kiss  of  passion  left  an  in 
eradicable  mark  on  her,  and  he  wras  quite  certain  that  Lily  had 
never  been  so  kissed  before. 

Driving  through  the  park  he  turned  to  her : 

"Please  forgive  me,"  he  said,  his  mellow  voice  contrite  and 
supplicating.  "You've  been  so  fine  about  it  that  you  make 
•me  ashamed." 

"I  would  like  to  feel  that  it  wouldn't  happen  again.  That's 
all." 

"That  means  you  intend  to  see  me  again.  But  never  is  a 
long  word.  I'm  afraid  to  promise.  You  go  to  my  head,  Lily 
Cardew."  They  were  halted  by  the  traffic,  and  it  gave  him 
a  chance  to  say  something  he  had  been  ingeniously  formulat 
ing  in  his  mind.  "I've  known  lots  of  girls.  I'm  no  saint. 
But  you  are  different.  You're  a  good  woman.  You  could  do 
anything  you  wanted  with  me,  if  you  cared  to." 

And  because  she  was  young  and  lovely,  and  because  he  was 
always  the  slave  of  youth  and  beauty,  he  meant  what  he  said. 
It  was  a  lie,  but  he  was  lying  to  himself  also,  and  his  voice 
held  unmistakable  sincerity.  But  even  then  he  was  watching 
her,  weighing  the  effect  of  his  words  on  her.  He  saw  that  she 
was  touched. 

He  was  very  well  pleased  with  himself  on  his  way  home. 
He  left  the  car  at  the  public  garage,  and  walked,  whistling 
blithely,  to  his  small  bachelor  apartment.  He  was  a  self- 
indulgent  man,  and  his  rooms  were  comfortable  to  the  point 
of  luxury.  In  the  sitting  room  was  a  desk,  as  clean  and 
orderly  as  Doyle's  was  untidy.  Having  put  on  his  dressing 
gown  he  went  to  it,  and  with  a  sheet  of  paper  before  him  sat 
for  some  time  thinking. 

He  found  his  work  irksome  at  times.  True,  it  had  its  inter 
est.  He  was  the  liaison  between  organized  labor,  which  was 
conservative  in  the  main,  and  the  radical  element,  both  in  and 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 127 

out  of  the  organization.  He  played  a  double  game,  and  his 
work  was  always  the  same,  to  fan  the  discontent  latently 
smoldering  in  every  man's  soul  into  a  flame.  And  to  do  this 
he  had  not  Doyle's  fanaticism.  Personally,  Louis  Akers  found 
the  world  a  pretty  good  place.  He  hated  the  rich  because 
they  had  more  than  he  had,  but  he  scorned  the  poor  because 
they  had  less.  And  he  liked  the  feeling  of  power  he  had  when, 
on  the  platform,  men  swayed  to  his  words  like  wheat  to  a 
wind. 

Personal  ambition  was  his  fetish,  as  power  was  Anthony 
Cardew's.  Sometimes  he  walked  past  the  exclusive  city  clubs, 
and  he  dreamed  of  a  time  when  he,  too,  would  have  the 
entree  to  them.  But  time  was  passing.  He  was  thirty-three 
years  old  when  Jim  Doyle  crossed  his  path,  and  the  clubs 
were  as  far  away  as  ever.  It  was  Doyle  who  found  the  weak 
place  in  his  armor,  and  who  taught  him  that  when  one  could 
not  rise  it  was  possible  to  pull  others  down. 

But  it  was  Woslosky,  the  Americanized  Pole,  who  had  put 
the  thing  in  a  more  appealing  form. 

"Our  friend  Doyle  to  the  contrary,"  he  said  cynically,  "we 
cannot  hope  to  contend  against  the  inevitable.  The  few  will 
always  govern  the  many,  in  the  end.  It  will  be  the  old  cycle, 
autocracy,  anarchy,  and  then  democracy;  but  out  of  this  last 
comes  always  the  one  man  who  crowns  himself  or  is  crowned. 
One  of  the  people.  You,  or  myself,  it  may  be." 

The  Pole  had  smiled  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

Akers  did  not  go  to  work  immediately.  He  sat  for  some 
time,  a  cigarette  in  his  hand,  his  eyes  slightly  narrowed.  He 
believed  that  he  could  marry  Lily  Cardew.  It  would  take 
time  and  all  his  skill,  but  he  believed  he  could  do  it.  His  mind 
wandered  to  Lily  herself,  her  youth  and  charm,  her  soft  red 
mouth,  the  feel  of  her  warm  young  body  in  his  arms.  He 
brought  himself  up  sharply.  Where  would  such  a  marriage 
take  him? 

He  pondered  the  question  pro  and  con.  On  the  one  hand 
the  Cardews,  on  the  other,  Doyle  and  a  revolutionary  move 
ment.  A  revolution  would  be  interesting  and  exciting,  and 


128 A  POOR  WISE  MAN ___^ 

there  was  strong  in  him  the  desire  to  pull  down.  But  revolu 
tion  was  troublesome.  It  was  violent  and  bloody.  Even  if 
it  succeeded  it  would  be  years  before  the  country  would  be 
stabilized.  This  other,  now 

He  sat  low  in  his  chair,  his  long  legs  stretched  out  in  his 
favorite  position,  and  dreamed.  He  would  not  play  the  fool 
like  Doyle.  He  would  conciliate  the  family.  In  the  end  he 
would  be  put  up  at  the  clubs;  he  might  even  play  polo.  His 
thoughts  wandered  to  Pink  Denslow  at  the  polo  grounds,  and 
he  grinned. 

"Young  fool!"  he  reflected.    "If  I  can't  beat  his  time " 

He  ordered  dinner  to  be  sent  up,  and  mixed  himself  a  cock 
tail,  using  the  utmost  care  in  its  preparation.  Drinking  it,  he 
eyed  himself  complacently  in  the  small  mirror  over  the  mantel. 
Yes,  life  was  not  bad.  It  was  damned  interesting.  It  was  a 
game.  No,  it  was  a  race  where  a  man  could  so  hedge  his  bets 
that  he  stood  to  gain,  whoever  won. 

When  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door  he  did  not  turn. 

"Come  in,"  he  said. 

But  it  was  not  the  waiter.  It  was  Edith  Boyd.  He  saw 
her  through  the  mirror,  and  so  addressed  her. 

"Hello,  sweetie,"  he  said.  Then  he  turned.  "You  oughtn't 
to  come  here,  Edith.  I've  told  you  about  that." 

"I  had  to  see  you,  Lou." 

"Well,  take  a  good  look,  then,"  he  said.  Her  coming  fitted 
in  well  with  the  complacence  of  his  mood.  Yes,  life  was  good, 
so  long  as  it  held  power,  and  drink,  and  women. 

He  stooped  to  kiss  her,  but  although  she  accepted  the  caress, 
she  did  not  return  it. 

"Not  mad  at  me,  Miss  Boyd,  are  you  ?" 

"No.    Lou,  I'm  frightened!" 


CHAPTER  XIV 

ON  clear  Sundays  Anthony  Cardew  played  golf  all  day. 
He  kept  his  religious  observances  for  bad  weather,  but  at 
such  times  as  he  attended  service  he  did  it  with  the  decorum 
and  dignity  of  a  Cardew,  who  bowed  to  his  God  but  to  nothing 
else.  He  made  the  responses  properly  and  with  a  certain  unc 
tion,  and  sat  during  the  sermon  with  a  vigilant  eye  on  the 
choir  boys,  who  wriggled.  Now  and  then,  however,  the  eye 
wandered  to  the  great  stained  glass  window  which  was  a 
memorial  to  his  wife.  It  said  beneath :  "In  memoriam,  Lilian 
Lethbridge  Cardew/' 

He  thought  there  was  too  much  yellow  in  John  the  Baptist. 

On  the  Sunday  afternoon  following  her  ride  into  the  city 
with  Louis  Akers,  Lily  found  herself  alone.  Anthony  was 
golfing  and  Grace  and  Howard  had  motored  out  of  town  for 
luncheon.  In  a  small  office  near  the  rear  of  the  hall  the  second 
man  dozed,  waiting  for  the  doorbell.  There  would  be  people 
in  for  tea  later,  as  always  on  Sunday  afternoons;  girls  and 
men,  walking  through  the  park  or  motoring  up  in  smart 
cars,  the  men  a  trifle  bored  because  they  were  not  golfing  or 
riding,  the  girls  chattering  about  the  small  inessentials  which 
somehow  they  made  so  important. 

Lily  was  wretchedly  unhappy.  For  one  thing,  she  had  begun 
to  feel  that  Mademoiselle  was  exercising  over  "her  a  sort  of 
gentle  espionage,  and  she  thought  her  grandfather  -was  behind 
it.  Out  of  sheer  rebellion  she  had  gone  again  to  the  house  on 
Cardew  Way,  to  find  Elinor  out  and  Jim  Doyle  writing  at 
his  desk.  He  had  received  her  cordially,  and  had  talked  to 
her  as  an  equal.  His  deferential  attitude  had  soothed  her 
wounded  pride,  and  she  had  told  him  something — very  little — 
of  the  situation  at  home. 

"Then  you  are  still  forbidden  to  come  here?" 

"Yes.  As  if  what  happened  years  ago  matters  now,  Mr. 
Doyle." 

129 


130 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

He  eyed  her. 

"Don't  let  them  break  your  spirit,  Lily,"  he  had  said.  "Suc 
cess  can  make  people  very  hard.  I  don't  know  myself  what 
success  would  do  to  me.  Plenty,  probably."  He  smiled.  "It 
isn't  the  past  your  people  won't  forgive  me,  Lily.  It's  my 
failure  to  succeed  in  what  they  call  success." 

"It  isn't  that,"  she  had  said  hastily.  "It  is — they  say  you  are 
inflammatory.  Of  course  they  don't  understand.  I  have  tried 
to  tell  them,  but " 

"There  are  fires  that  purify,"  he  had  said,  smilingly. 

She  had  gone  home,  discontented  with  her  family's  lack  of 
vision,  and  with  herself. 

She  was  in  a  curious  frame  of  mind.  The  thought  of  Louis 
Akers  repelled  her,  but  she  thought  of  him  constantly.  She 
analyzed  him  clearly  enough;  he  was  not  fine  and  not  sensi 
tive.  He  was  not  even  kind.  Indeed,  she  felt  that  he  could 
be  both  cruel  and  ruthless.  And  if  she  was  the  first  good 
woman  he  had  ever  known,  then  he  must  have  had  a  hateful 
past. 

The  thought  that  he  had  kissed  her  turned  her  hot  with  anger 
and  shame  at  such  times,  but  the  thought  recurred. 

Had  she  had  occupation  perhaps  she  might  have  been  saved, 
but  she  had  nothing  to  do.  The  house  went  on  with  its  dis 
ciplined  service ;  Lent  had  made  its  small  demands  as  to  church 
services,  and  was  over.  The  weather  was  bad,  and  the  golf 
links  still  soggy  with  the  spring  rains.  Her  wardrobe  was 
long  ago  replenished,  and  that  small  interest  gone. 

And  somehow  there  had  opened  a  breach  between  herself 
and  the  little  intimate  group  that  had  been  hers  before  the 
war.  She  wondered  sometimes  what  they  would  think  of  Louis 
Akers.  They  would  admire  him,  at  first,  for  his  opulent  good 
looks,  but  very  soon  they  would  recognize  what  she  knew  so 
well — the  gulf  between  him  and  the  men  of  their  own  world, 
so  hard  a  distinction  to  divine,  yet  so  real  for  all  that.  They 
would  know  instinctively  that  under  his  veneer  of  good  man 
ners  was  something  coarse  and  crude,  as  she  did,  and  they 
would  politely  snub  him.  She  had  no  name  and  no  knowledge 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN iji_ 

for  the  urge  in  the  man  that  she  vaguely  recognized  and  re 
sented.  But  she  had  a  full  knowledge  of  the  obsession  he  was 
becoming  in  her  mind. 

"If  I  could  see  him  here,"  she  reflected,  more  than  once, 
"I'd  get  over  thinking  about  him.  It's  because  they  forbid  me 
to  see  him.  It's  sheer  contrariness." 

But  it  was  not,  and  she  knew  it.  She  had  never  heard  of  his 
theory  about  the  mark  on  a  woman. 

She  was  hating  herself  very  vigorously  on  that  Sunday 
afternoon.  Mademoiselle  and  she  had  lunched  alone  in  Lily's 
sitting-room,  and  Mademoiselle  had  dozed  off  in  her  chair 
afterwards,  a  novel  on  her  knee.  Lily  was  wandering  about 
downstairs  when  the  telephone  rang,  and  she  had  a  quick  con 
viction  that  it  was  Louis  Akers.  It  was  only  Willy  Cameron, 
however,  asking  her  if  she  cared  to  go  for  a  walk. 

"I've  promised  Jinx  one  all  day,"  he  explained,  "and  we 
might  as  well  combine,  if  you  are  not  busy." 

She  smiled  at  that. 

"I'd  love  it,"  she  said.    "In  the  park?" 

"Wait  a  moment."  Then:  "Yes,  Jinx  says  the  park  is 
right." 

His  wholesome  nonsense  was  good  for  her.  She  drew  a  long 
breath. 

"You  are  precisely  the  person  I  need  to-day,"  she  said.  "And 
come  soon,  because  I  shall  have  to  be  back  at  five." 

When  he  came  he  was  very  neat  indeed,  and  most  scrupulous 
as  to  his  heels  being  polished.  He  was  also  slightly  breath 
less. 

"Had  to  sew  a  button  on  my  coat,"  he  explained.  "Then 
I  found  I'd  sewed  in  one  of  my  fingers  and  had  to  start  ail 
over  again." 

Lily  was  conscious  of  a  change  in  him.  He  looked  older, 
she  thought,  and  thinner.  His  smile,  wh^n  it  came,  was  as 
boyish  as  ever,  but  he  did  not  smile  so  much,  and  seen  in  full 
daylight  he  was  shabby.  He  seemed  totally  unconscious  of  his 
clothes,  however. 


132 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

"What  do  you  do  with  yourself,  Willy?"  she  asked.  "I 
mean  when  you  are  free  ?" 

"Read  and  study.  I  want  to  take  up  metallurgy  pretty 
soon.  There's  a  night  course  at  the  college." 

"We  use  metallurgists  in  the  mill.  When  you  are  ready  I 
know  father  would  be  glad  to  have  you." 

He  flushed  at  that. 

"Thanks,"  he  said.  "I'd  rather  get  in,  wherever  I  go,  by 
what  I  know,  and  not  who  I  know." 

She  felt  considerably  snubbed,  but  she  knew  his  curious 
pride.  After  a  time,  while  he  threw  a  stick  into  the  park  lake 
and  Jinx  retrieved  it,  he  said : 

"What  do  you  do  with  yourself  these  days,  Lily  ?" 

"Nothing.  I've  forgotten  how  to  work,  I'm  afraid.  And  I'm 
not  very  happy,  Willy.  I  ought  to  be,  but  I'm  just — not." 

"You've  learned  what  it  is  to  be  useful,"  he  observed  gravely, 
"and  now  it  hardly  seems  worth  while  just  to  live,  and  nothing 
else.  Is  that  it  ?" 

"I  suppose  so." 

"Isn't  there  anything  you  can  do?" 

"They  won't  let  me  work,  and  I  hate  to  study." 

There  was  a  silence.  Willy  Cameron  sat  on  the  bench, 
bent  and  staring  ahead.  Jinx  brought  the  stick,  and,  receiving 
no  attention,  insinuated  a  dripping  body  between  his  knees.  He 
patted  the  dog's  head  absently. 

"I  have  been  thinking  about  the  night  I  went  to  dinner  at 
your  house,"  he  said  at  last.  "I  had  no  business  to  say  what 
I  said  then.  I've  got  a  miserable  habit  of  saying  just  what 
comes  into  my  mind,  and  I've  been  afraid,  ever  since,  that  it 
would  end  in  your  not  wanting  to  see  me  again.  Just  try  to 
forget  it  happened,  won't  you?" 

"I  knew  it  was  an  impulse,  but  it  made  me  very  proud, 
Willy." 

"All  right,"  he  said  quietly.  "And  that's  that.  Now  about 
your  grandfather.  I've  had  him  on  my  mind,  too.  He  is  an  old 
man,  and  sometimes  they  are  peculiar.  I  am  only  sorry  I  upset 
him.  And  you  are  to  forget  that,  too." 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 133 

In  spite  of  herself  she  laughed,  rather  helplessly. 

"Is  there  anything  I  am  to  remember?" 

He  smiled  too,  and  straightened  himself,  like  a  man  who  has 
got  something  off  his  chest. 

"Certainly  there  is,  Miss  Cardew.  Me.  Myself.  I  want 
you  to  know  that  I'm  around,  ready  to  fetch  and  carry  like 
Jinx  here,  and  about  as  necessary,  I  suppose.  We  are  a  good 
bit  alike,  Jinx  and  I.  We're  satisfied  with  a  bone,  and  we  give 
a  lot  of  affection.  You  won't  mind  a  bone  now  and  then?" 

His  cheerful  tone  reassured  the  girl.  There  was  no  real 
hurt,  then. 

"That's  nice  of  you,  you  know." 

"Well,"  he  said  slowly,  "you  know  there  are  men  who  prefer 
a  dream  to  reality.  Perhaps  I'm  like  that.  Anyhow,  that's 
enough  about  me.  Do  you  know  that  there  is  a  strike  com- 
ing?" 

"Yes.  I  ought  to  tell  you,  Willy.  I  think  the  men  are 
right." 

He  stared  at  her  incredulously. 

"Right  ?"  he  said.  "Why,  my  dear  child,  most  of  them  want 
to  strike  about  as  much  as  I  want  delirium  tremens.  I've 
talked  to  them,  and  I  know." 

"A  slave  may  be  satisfied  if  he  has  never  known  freedom." 

"Oh,  fudge,"  said  Willy  Cameron,  rudely.  "Where  do  you 
get  all  that?  You're  quoting,  aren't  you?  The  strike,  any 
strike,  is  an  acknowledgment  of  weakness.  It  is  a  resort  to 
the  physical  because  the  collective  mentality  of  labor  isn't  as 
strong  as  the  other  side.  Or  labor  thinks  it  isn't,  which 
amounts  to  the  same  thing.  And  there  is  a  fine  line  between 
the  fellow  who  fights  for  a  principle  and  the  one  who  knocks 
people  down  to  show  how  strong  he  is." 

"This  is  a  fight  for  a  principle,  Willy." 

"Fine  little  Cardew  you  are !"  he  scoffed.  "Don't  make  any 
mistake.  There  have  been  fights  by  labor  for  a  principle,  and 
the  principle  won,  as  good  always  wins  over  evil.  But  this 
is  different.  It's  a  direct  play  by  men  who  don't  realize  what 
they  are  doing,  into  the  hands  of  a  lot  of — well,  we'll  call 


134  •  A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

them  anarchists.  It's  Germany's  way  of  winning  the  war.  By 
indirection/' 

"If  by  anarchists  you  mean  men  like  my  uncle " 

"I  do/'  he  said  grimly.  "That's  a  family  accident  and  you 
can't  help  it.  But  I  do  mean  Doyle.  Doyle  and  a  Pole  named 
Woslosky,  and  a  scoundrel  of  an  attorney  here  in  town,  named 
Akers,  among  others." 

"Mr.  Akers  is  a  friend  of  mine,  Willy." 

He  stared  at  her. 

"If  they  have  been  teaching  you  their  dirty  doctrines,  Lily/' 
he  said  at  last,  "I  can  only  tell  you  this.  They  can  disguise 
it  in  all  the  fine  terms  they  want.  It  is  treason,  and  they 
are  traitors.  I  know.  I've  had  a  talk  with  the  Chief  of 
Police." 

"I  don't  believe  it." 

"How  well  do  you  know  Louis  Akers  ?" 

"Not  very  well."  But  there  were  spots  of  vivid  color 
flaming  in  her  cheeks.  He  drew  a  long  breath. 

"I  can't  retract  it,"  he  said.  "I  didn't  know,  of  course. 
Shall  we  start  back?" 

They  were  very  silent  as  they  walked.  Willy  Cameron  was 
pained  and  anxious.  He  knew  Akers'  type  rather  than  the 
man  himself,  but  he  knew  the  type  well.  Every  village  had 
one,  the  sleek  handsome  animal  who  attracted  girls  by  sheer 
impudence  and  good  humor,  who  made  passionate,  pagan  love 
promiscuously,  and  put  the  responsibility  for  the  misery  they 
caused  on  the  Creator  because  He  had  made  them  as  they 
were. 

He  was  agonized  by  another  train  of  thotfght.  For  him  Lily 
had  always  been  something  fine,  beautiful,  infinitely  remote. 
There  were  other  girls,  girls  like  Edith  Boyd,  who  were 
touched,  some  more,  some  less,  with  the  soil  of  life.  Even 
when  they  kept  clean  they  saw  it  all  about  them,  and  looked 
on  it  with  shrewd,  sophisticated  eyes.  But  Lily  was — Lily. 
The  very  thought  of  Louis  Akers  looking  at  her  as  he  had 
seen  him  look  at  Edith  Boyd  made  him  cold  with  rage. 

"Do  you  mind  if  I  say  something?" 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 135 

"That  sounds  disagreeable.    Is  it?" 

"Maybe,  but  I'm  going  to  anyhow,  Lily.  I  don't  like  to  think 
of  you  seeing  Akers.  I  don't  know  anything  against  him,  and 
I  suppose  if  I  did  I  wouldn't  tell  you.  But  he  is  not  your 
sort." 

An  impulse  of  honesty  prevailed  with  her. 

"I  know  that  as  well  as  you  do.  I  know  him  better  than  you 
do.  But,  he  stands  for  something,  at  least,"  she  added  rather 
hotly.  "None  of  the  other  men  I  know  stand  for  anything 
very  much.  Even  you,  Willy." 

"I  stand  for  the  preservation  of  my  country,"  he  said  gravely. 
"I  mean,  I  represent  a  lot  of  people  who — well,  who  don't  be 
lieve  that  change  always  means  progress,  and  who  do  intend 
that  the  changes  Doyle  and  Akers  and  that  lot  want  they  won't 
get.  I  don't  believe — if  you  say  you  want  what  they  want — 
that  you  know  what  you  are  talking  about." 

"Perhaps  I  am  more  intelligent  than  you  think  I  am." 

He  was,  of  course,  utterly  wretched,  impressed  by  the  futility 
of  arguing  with  her. 

"Do  your  people  know  that  you  are  seeing  Louis  Akers?" 

"You  are  being  rather  solicitous,  aren't  you?" 

"I  am  being  rather  anxious.  I  wouldn't  dare,  of  course,  if 
we  hadn't  been  such  friends.  But  Akers  is  wrong,  wrong 
every  way,  and  I  have  to  tell  you  that,  even  if  it  means  that 
you  will  never  see  me  again.  He  takes  a  credulous  girl " 

"Thank  you !" 

"And  talks  bunk  to  her  and  possibly  makes  love  to  her " 

"Haven't  we  had  enough  of  Mr.  Akers?"  Lily  asked  coldly. 
"If  you  cannot  speak  of  anything  else,  please  don't  talk." 

The  result  of  which  was  a  frozen  silence  until  they  reached 
the  house. 

"Good-by,"  she  said  primly.  "It  was  very  nice  of  you  to 
call  me  up.  Good-by,  Jinx,"  She  went  up  the  steps,  leav 
ing  him  bare-headed  and  rather  haggard,  looking  after  her. 

He  took  the  dog  and  went  out  into  the  country  on  foot, 
tramping  through  the  mud  without  noticing  it,  and  now  and 
then  making  little  despairing  gestures.  He  was  helpless.  He 


136 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

had  cut  himself  off  from  her  like  a  fool.  Akers.  Akers 
and  Edith  Boyd.  Other  women.  Akers  and  other  women. 
And  now  Lily.  Good  God,  Lily ! 

Jinx  was  tired.  He  begged  to  be  carried,  planting  two 
muddy  feet  on  his  master's  shabby  trouser  leg,  and  pleading 
with  low  whines.  Willy  Cameron  stooped  and,  gathering  up 
the  little  animal,  tucked  him  under  his  arm.  When  it  com 
menced  to  rain  he  put  him  under  his  coat  and  plunged  his  head 
through  the  mud  and  wet  toward  home. 

Lily  had  entered  the  house  in  a  white  fury,  but  a  moment 
later  she  was  remorseful.  For  one  thing,  her  own  anger  be 
wildered  her.  After  all,  he  had  meant  well,  and  it  was  like 
him  to  be  honest,  even  if  it  cost  him  something  he  valued. 

She  ran  to  the  door  and  looked  around  for  him,  but  he  had 
disappeared.  She  went  in  again,  remorseful  and  unhappy. 
What  had  come  over  her  to  treat  him  like  that  ?  He  had  looked 
almost  stricken.  I 

"Mr.  Akers  is  calling,  Miss  Cardew,"  said  the  footman.  "He 
is  in  the  drawing-room." 

Lily  went  in  slowly. 

Louis  Akers  had  been  waiting  for  some  time.  He  had 
lounged  into  the  drawing-room,  with  an  ease  assumed  for  the 
servant's  benefit,  and  had  immediately  lighted  a  cigarette.  That 
done,  and  the  servant  departed,  he  had  carefully  appraised  his 
surroundings.  He  liked  the  stiff  formality  of  the  room.  He 
liked  the  servant  in  his  dark  maroon  livery.  He  liked  the 
silence  and  decorum.  Most  of  all,  he  liked  himself  in  these 
surroundings.  He  wandered  around,  touching  a  bowl  here,  a 
vase  there,  eyeing  carefully  the  ancient  altar  cloth  that  lay 
on  a  table,  the  old  needle-work  tapestry  on  the  chairs. 

He  saw  himself  fitted  into  this  environment,  a  part  of  it; 
coming  down  the  staircase,  followed  by  his  wife,  and  getting 
into  his  waiting  limousine ;  sitting  at  the  head  of  his  table,  while 
the  important  men  of  the  city  listened  to  what  he  had  to  say. 
It  would  come,  as  sure  as  God  made  little  fishes.  And  Doyle 
was  a  fool.  He,  Louis  Akers,  would  marry  Lily  Cardew 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 137 

and  block  that  other  game.  But  he  would  let  the  Cardews  know 
who  it  was  who  had  blocked  it  and  saved  their  skins.  They'd 
have  to  receive  him  after  that;  they  would  cringe  to  him. 

Then,  unexpectedly,  he  had  one  of  the  shocks  of  his  life. 
He  had  gone  to  the  window  and  through  it  he  saw  Lily  and 
Willy  Cameron  outside.  He  clutched  at  the  curtain  and 
cursed  under  his  breath,  apprehensively.  But  Willy  Cameron 
did  not  come  in;  Akers  watched  him  up  the  street  with  cal 
culating,  slightly  narrowed  eyes.  The  fact  that  Lily  Cardew 
knew  the  clerk  at  the  Eagle  Pharmacy  was  an  unexpected 
complication.  His  surprise  was  lost  in  anxiety.  But  Lily,  en 
tering  the  room  a  moment  later,  rather  pale  and  unsmiling, 
found  him  facing  the  door,  his  manner  easy,  his  head  well  up, 
and  drawn  to  his  full  and  rather  overwhelming  height.  She 
found  her  poise  entirely  gone,  and  it  was  he  who  spoke  first. 

"I  know,"  he  said.  "You  didn't  ask  me,  but  I  came  any 
how." 

She  held  out  her  hand  rather  primly. 

"It  is  very  good  of  you  to  come." 

"Good!     I  couldn't  stay  away." 

He  took  her  outstretched  hand,  smiling  down  at  her,  and 
suddenly  made  an  attempt  to  draw  her  to  him. 

"You  know  that,  don't  you?" 

"Please!" 

He  let  her  go  at  once.  He  had  not  played  his  little  game 
so  long  without  learning  its  fine  points.  There  were  times 
to  woo  a  woman  with  a  strong  arm,  and  there  were  other 
times  that  required  other  methods. 

"Right-o,"  he  said,  "I'm  sorry.  I've  been  thinking  about 
you  so  much  that  I  daresay  I  have  got  farther  in  our  friend 
ship  than  I  should.  Do  you  know  that  you  haven't  been  out 
of  my  mind  since  that  ride  we  had  together?" 

"Really?    Would  you  like  some  tea?" 

"Thanks,  yes.     Do  you  dislike  my  telling  you  that?" 

She  rang  the  bell,  and  then  stood  facing  him. 

"I  don't  mind,  no.  But  I  am  trying  very  hard  to  forget  that 
ride,  and  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  it." 


138 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

"When  a  beautiful  thing  comes  into  a  man's  life  he  likes  to 
remember  it." 

"How  can  you  call  it  beautiful  ?" 

"Isn't  it  rather  fine  when  two  people,  a  man  and  a  woman, 
suddenly  find  a  tremendous  attraction  that  draws  them  to 
gether,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  everything  else  is  conspiring 
to  keep  them  apart?" 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said  uncertainly.  "It  just  seemed  all 
wrong,  somehow." 

"An  honest  impulse  is  never  wrong." 

"I  don't  want  to  discuss  it,  Mr.  Akers.    It  is  over." 

While  he  was  away  from  her,  her  attraction  for  him  loomed 
less  than  the  things  she  promised,  of  power  and  gratified 
ambition.  But  he  found  her,  with  her  gentle  aloofness,  ex 
ceedingly  appealing,  and  with  the  tact  of  the  man  who  under 
stands  women  he  adapted  himself  to  her  humor. 

"You  are  making  me  very  unhappy,  Miss  Lily,"  he  said.  "If 
you'll  only  promise  to  let  me  see  you  now  and  then,  I'll  promise 
to  be  as  mild  as  dish-water.  Will  you  promise  ?" 

She  was  still  struggling,  still  remembering  Willy  Cameron, 
still  trying  to  remember  all  the  things  that  Louis  Akers  was 
not. 

"I  think  I  ought  not  to  see  you  at  all." 

"Then,"  he  said  slowly,  "you  are  going  to  cut  me  off  from 
the  one  decent  influence  in  my  life." 

She  was  still  revolving  that  in  her  mind  when  tea  came. 
Akers,  having  shot  his  bolt,  watched  with  interest  the  prepara 
tions  for  the  little  ceremony,  the  old  Georgian  teaspoons,  the 
Crown  Derby  cups,  the  bell-shaped  Queen  Anne  teapot,  beauti 
fully  chased,  the  old  pierced  sugar  basin.  Almost  his  gaze  was 
proprietory.  And  he  watched  Lily,  her  casual  handling  of  those 
priceless  treasures,  her  taking  for  granted  of  service  and 
beauty,  her  acceptance  of  quality  because  she  had  never  known 
anything  else,  watched  her  with  possessive  eyes. 

When  the  servant  had  gone,  he  said : 

"You  are  being  very  nice  to  me,  in  view  of  the  fact  that 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 139 

you  did  not  ask  me  to  come.  And  also  remembering  that  your 
family  does  not  happen  to  care  about  me." 

"They  are  not  at  home." 

"I  knew  that,  or  I  should  not  have  come.  I  don't  want  to 
make  trouble  for  you,  child."  His  voice  was  infinitely  caress 
ing.  "As  it  happens,  I  know  your  grandfather's  Sunday  habits, 
and  I  met  your  father  and  mother  on  the  road  going  out  of 
town  at  noon.  I  knew  they  had  not  come  back." 

"How  do  you  know  that?" 

He  smiled  down  at  her.  "I  have  ways  of  knowing  quite 
a  lot  of  things.  Especially  when  they  are  as  vital  to  me  as  this 
few  minutes  alone  with  you." 

He  bent  toward  her,  as  he  sat  behind  the  tea  table. 

"You  know  how  vital  this  is  to  me,  don't  you?"  he  said. 
"You're  not  going  to  cut  me  off,  are  you  ?" 

He  stood  over  her,  big,  compelling,  dominant,  and  put  his 
hand  under  her  chin. 

"I  am  insane  about  you,"  he  whispered,  and  waited. 

Slowly,  irresistibly,  she  lifted  her  face  to  his  kiss. 


CHAPTER  XV 

ON  the  first  day  of  May,  William  Wallace  Cameron  moved 
his  trunk,  the  framed  photograph  of  his  mother,  eleven 
books,  an  alarm  clock  and  Jinx  to  the  Boyd  house.  He  went 
for  two  reasons.  First,  after  his  initial  call  at  the  dreary 
little  house,  he  began  to  realize  that  something  had  to  be  done 
in  the  Boyd  family.  The  second  reason  was  his  dog. 

He  began  to  realize  that  something  had  to  be  done  in  the 
Boyd  family  as  soon  as  he  had  met  Mrs.  Boyd. 

"I  don't  know  what's  come  over  the  children,"  Mrs.  Boyd 
said,  fretfully.  She  sat  rocking  persistently  in  the  dreary  little 
parlor.  Her  chair  inched  steadily  along  the  dull  carpet,  and 
once  or  twice  she  brought  up  just  as  she  was  about  to  make  a 
gradual  exit  from  the  room.  "They  act  so  queer  lately." 

She  hitched  the  chair  into  place  again.  Edith  had  gone 
out.  It  was  her  idea  of  an  evening  call  to  serve  cakes  and 
coffee,  and  a  strong  and  acrid  odor  was  seeping  through  the 
doorway.  "There's  Dan  come  home  from  the  war,  and  when 
he  gets  back  from  the  mill  he  just  sits  and  stares  ahead  of  him. 
He  won't  even  talk  about  the  war.  although  he's  got  a  lot  to 
tell." 

"It  takes  some  time  for  the  men  who  were  over  to  get  set 
tled  down  again,  you  know." 

"Well,  there's  Edith,"  continued  the  querulous  voice.  "You'd 
think  the  cat  had  got  her  tongue,  too.  I  tell  you,  Mr.  Cameron, 
there  are  meals  here  when  if  I  didn't  talk  there  wouldn't  be  a 
word  spoken." 

Mr.  Cameron  looked  up.  It  had  occurred  to  him  lately, 
not  precisely  that  a  cat  had  got  away  with  Edith's  tongue,  but 
that  something  undeniably  had  got  away  with  her  cheerful 
ness.  There  were  entire  days  in  the  store  when  she  neglected 
to  manicure  her  nails,  and  stood  looking  out  past  the  fading 
primrose  in  the  window  to  the  street.  But  there  were  no 
longer  any  shrewd  comments  on  the  passers-by. 

140 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 141 

"Of  course,  the  house  isn't  very  cheerful,"  sighed  Mrs. 
Boyd.  "I'm  a  sick  woman,  Mr.  Cameron.  My  back  hurts  most 
of  the  time.  It  just  aches  and  aches." 

"I  know,"  said  Mr.  Cameron.  "My  mother  has  that,  some 
times.  If  you  like  I'll  mix  you  up  some  liniment,  and  Miss 
Edith  can  bring  it  to  you." 

"Thanks.  I've  tried  most  everything.  Edith  wants  to  rent 
a  room,  so  we  can  keep  a  hired  girl,  but  it's  hard  to  get  a  girl. 
They  want  all  the  money  on  earth,  and  they  eat  something 
awful.  That's  a  nice  friendly  dog  of  yours,  Mr.  Cameron." 

It  was  perhaps  Jinx  who  decided  Willy  Cameron.  Jinx 
was  at  that  moment  occupying  the  only  upholstered  chair,  but 
he  had  developed  a  strong  liking  for  the  frail  little  lady  with 
the  querulous  voice  and  the  shabby  black  dress.  He  had,  in 
deed,  insisted  shortly  after  his  entrance  on  leaping  into  her 
lap,  and  had  thus  sat  for  some  time,  completely  eclipsing  his 
hostess. 

"Just  let  him  sit,"  Mrs.  Boyd  said  placidly.  "I  like  a  dog. 
And  he  can't  hurt  this  skirt  I've  got  on.  It's  on  its  last 
legs/; 

With  which  bit  of  unconscious  humor  Willy  Cameron  had 
sat  down.  Something  warm  and  kindly  glowed  in  his  heart. 
He  felt  that  dogs  have  a  curious  instinct  for  knowing  what 
lies  concealed  in  the  human  heart,  and  that  Jinx  had  discov 
ered  something  worth  while  in  Edith's  mother. 

It  was  later  in  the  evening,  however,  that  he  said,  over 
Edith's  bakery  cakes  and  her  atrocious  coffee: 

"If  you  really  mean  that  about  a  roomer,  I  know  of  one." 
He  glanced  at  Edith.  "Very  neat.  Careful  with  matches. 
Hard  to  get  up  in  the  morning,  but  interesting,  highly  intelli 
gent,  and  a  clever  talker.  That's  his  one  fault.  When  he  is 
interested  in  a  thing  he  spouts  all  over  the  place." 

"Really?"  said  Mrs.  Boyd.  "Well,  talk  would  be  a  change 
here.  He  sounds  kind  of  pleasant.  Who  is  he  ?" 

"This  paragon  of  beauty  and  intellect  sits  before  you,"  said 
Willy  Cameron. 

"You'll  have  to  excuse  me.     I  didn't  recognize  you  by  the 


142 A  POOR  WISE  MAN      

description,"  said  Mrs.  Boyd,  unconsciously.     "Well,  I  don't 
know.    I'd  like  to  have  this  dog  around." 

Even  Edith  laughed  at  that.  She  had  been  very  silent  all 
evening,  sitting  most  of  the  time  with  her  hands  in  her  lap,  and 
her  eyes  on  Willy  Cameron.  Rather  like  Jinx's  eyes  they  were, 
steady,  unblinking,  loyal,  and  with  something  else  in  common 
with  Jinx  which  Willy  Cameron  never  suspected. 

"I  wouldn't  come,  if  I  were  you,"  she  said,  unexpectedly. 

"Why,  Edie,  you've  been  thinking  of  asking  him  right 
along." 

"We  don't  knofo-  how  to  keep  a  house,"  she  persisted,  to  him. 
"We  can't  even  cook — you  know  that's  rotten  coffee.  I'll  show 
you  the  room,  if  you  like,  but  I  won't  feel  hurt  if  you  don't 
take  it.  I'll  be  worried  if  you  do." 

Mrs.  Boyd  watched  them  perplexedly  as  they  went  out,  the 
tall  young  man  with  his  uneven  step,  and  Edith,  who  had 
changed  so  greatly  in  the  last  few  weeks,  and  blew  hot  one 
minute  and  cold  the  next.  Now  that  she  had  seen  Willy 
Cameron,  Mrs.  Boyd  wanted  him  to  come.  He  would  bring 
new  life  into  the  little  house.  He  was  cheerful.  He  wras  not 
glum  like  Dan  or  discontented  like  Edie.  And  the  dog 

She  got  up  slowly  and  walked  over  to  the  chair  where  Ji^  _ 
sat,  eyes  watchfully  on  the  door. 

"Nice  Jinx,"  she  said,  and  stroked  his  head  with  a  thin  and 
stringy  hand.  "Nice  doggie." 

She  took  a  cake  from  the  plate  and  fed  it  to  him,  bit  by  bit. 
She  felt  happier  than  she  had  for  a  long  time,  since  her  chil 
dren  were  babies  and  needed  her. 

"I  meant  it,"  said  Edith,  on  the  stairs.  "You  stay  away. 
We're  a  poor  lot,  and  we're  unlucky,  too.  Don't  get  mixed  up 
with  us." 

"Maybe  I'm  going  to  bring  you  luck." 

"The  best  luck  for  me  would  be  to  fall  down  these  stairs 
and  break  my  neck." 

He  looked  at  her  anxiously,  and  any  doubts  he  might  have 
had,  born  of  the  dreariness,  the  odors  of  stale  food  and  of 
the  musty  cellar  below,  of  the  shabby  room  she  proceeded  to 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 143 

show  him,  died  in  an  impulse  to  somehow,  some  way,  lift  this 
small  group  of  people  out  of  the  slough  of  despondency  which 
seemed  to  be  engulfing  them  all. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter  with  the  room?"  he  said.  "Just 
wait  until  I've  got  busy  in  it !  I'm  a  paper  hanger  and  a  painter, 
and " 

"You're  a  dear,  too,"  said  Edith. 

So  on  the  first  of  May  he  moved  in,  and  for  some  evenings 
Political  Economy  and  History  and  Travel  and  the  rest  gave 
way  to  anxious  cuttings  and  fittings  of  wall  paper,  and  a 
pungent  odor  of  paint.  The  old  house  took  on  new  life  and 
activity,  the  latter  sometimes  pernicious,  as  when  Willy  Cam 
eron  fell  down  the  cellar  stairs  with  a  pail  of  paint  in  his  hand, 
or  Dan,  digging  up  some  bricks  in  the  back  yard  for  a  border 
the  seeds  of  which  were  already  sprouting  in  a  flat  box  in  the 
kitchen,  ran  a  pickaxe  into  his  foot. 

Some  changes  were  immediate,  such  as  the  white-washing  of 
the  cellar  and  the  unpainted  fence  in  the  yard,  where  Willy 
Cameron  visualized,  later  on,  great  draperies  of  morning  glo 
ries.  He  papered  the  parlor,  and  coaxed  Mrs.  Boyd  to  wash 
the  curtains,  although  she  protested  that,  with  the  mill  smoke, 
it  was  useless  labor. 

But  there  were  some  changes  that  he  knew  only  time  would 
effect.  Sometimes  he  went  to  his  bed  worn  out  both  physically 
and  spiritually,  as  though  the  burden  of  lifting  three  life-sod 
den  souls  was  too  much.  Not  that  he  thought  of  that,  however. 
What  he  did  know  was  that  the  food  was  poor.  No  servant 
had  been  found,  and  years  of  lack  of  system  had  left  Mrs. 
Boyd's  mind  confused  and  erratic.  She  would  spend  hours 
concocting  expensive  desserts,  while  the  vegetables  boiled  dry 
and  scorched  ana  the  meat  turned  to  leather,  only  to  bring 
pridefully  to  the  table  some  flavorless  mixture  garnished  ac 
cording  to  a  picture  in  the  cook  book,  and  totally  unedible. 

She  would  have  ambitious  cleaning  days,  too,  starting  late 
and  leaving  off  with  beds  unmade  to  prepare  the  evening  meal. 
Dan,  home  from  the  mill  and  newly  adopting  Willy  Cameron's 


144 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

system  of  cleaning  up  for  supper,  would  turn  sullen  then,  and 
leave  the  moment  the  meal  was  over. 

"Hell  of  a  way  to  live,"  he  said  once.  "I'd  get  married,  but 
how  can  a  fellow  know  whether  a  girl  will  make  a  home  for 
him  or  give  him  this?  And  then  there  would  be  babies, 
too." 

The  relations  between  Dan  and  Edith  were  not  particularly 
cordial.  Willy  Cameron  found  their  bickering  understandable 
enough,  but  he  was  puzzled,  sometimes,  to  find  that  Dan  was 
surreptitiously  watching  his  sister.  Edith  was  conscious  of  it, 
too,  and  one  evening  she  broke  into  irritated  speech. 

"I  wish  you'd  quit  staring  at  me,  Dan  Boyd." 

"I  was  wondering  what  has  come  over  you,"  said  Dan,  un 
graciously.  "You  used  to  be  a  nice  kid.  Now  you're  an  angel 
one  minute  and  a  devil  the  next." 

Willy  spoke  to  him  that  night  when  they  were  setting  out 
rows  of  seedlings,  under  the  supervision  of  Jinx. 

"I  wouldn't  worry  her,  Dan,"  he  said ;  "it  is  the  spring,  prob 
ably.  It  gets  into  people,  you  know.  I'm  that  way  myself. 
I'd  give  a  lot  to  be  in  the  country  just  now." 

Dan  glanced  at  him  quickly,  but  whatever  he  may  have  had 
in  his  mind,  he  said  nothing  just  then.  However,  later  on  he 
volunteered : 

"She's  got  something  on  her  mind.  I  know  her.  But  I 
won't  have  her  talking  back  to  mother." 

A  week  or  so  after  Willy  Cameron  had  moved,  Mr.  Hen- 
dricks  rang  the  bell  of  the  Boyd  house,  and  then,  after  his 
amiable  custom,  walked  in. 

"Oh,  Cameron!"  he  bawled. 

"Upstairs,"  came  Willy  Cameron's  voice,  somewhat  thick-  • 
ened  with  carpet  tacks.    So  Mr.  Hendricks  climbed  part  of  the 
way,  when  he  found  his  head  on  a  level  with  that  of  the  young 
gentleman  he  sought,  who  was  nailing  a  rent  in  the  carpet. 

"Don't  stop,"  said  Mr.  Hendricks.  "Merely  friendly  call. 
And  for  heaven's  sake  don't  swallow  a  tack,  son.  I'm  going 
to  need  you." 

"Whaffor?"  inquired  Willy  Cameron,  through  his  nose. 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 145 

"Don't  know  yet.  Make  speeches,  probably.  If  Howard 
Cardew,  or  any  Cardew,  thinks  he's  going  to  be  mayor  of  this 
town,  he's  got  to  think  again." 

"I  don't  give  a  tinker's  dam  who's  mayor  of  this  town,  so 
long  as  he  gives  it  honest  government." 

"That's  right,"  said  Mr.  Hendricks  approvingly.  "Old  Car- 
dew's  been  running  it  for  years,  and  you  could  put  all  the  hon 
est  government  he's  given  us  in  a  hollow  tooth.  If  you'll  stop 
that  hammering,  I'd  like  to  make  a  proposition  to  you." 

Willy  Cameron  took  an  admiring  squint  at  his  handiwork. 

"Sorry  to  refuse  you,  Mr.  Hendricks,  but  I  don't  want  to  be 
mayor." 

Mr.  Hendricks  chuckled,  as  Willy  Cameron  led  the  way  to 
his  room.  He  wandered  around  the  room  while  Cameron 
opened  a  window  and  slid  the  dog  off  his  second  chair. 

"Great  snakes !"  he  said.     "Spargo's  Bolshevism !     Political 

Economy,  History  of .     What  are  you  planning  to  be? 

President  ?" 

"I  haven't  decided  yet.  It's  a  hard  job,  and  mighty  thank 
less.  But  I  won't  be  your  mayor,  even  for  you." 

Mr.  Hendricks  sat  down. 

"All  right,"  he  said.     "Of  course  if  you'd  wanted  it !" 

He  took  two  large  cigars  from  the  row  in  his  breast  pocket  and 
held  one  out,  but  Willy  Cameron  refused  it  and  got  his 
pipe. 

"Well?"  he  said. 

Mr.  Hendrick's  face  became  serious  and  very  thoughtful. 

"I  don't  know  that  I  have  ever  made  it  clear  to  you,  Cam 
eron,"  he  said,  "but  I've  got  a  peculiar  feeling  for  this  city. 
I  like  it,  the  way  some  people  like  their  families.  It's — well, 
it's  home  to  me,  for  one  thing.  I  like  to  go  out  in  the  eve 
nings  and  walk  around,  and  I  say  to  myself :  'This  is  my  town. 
And  we,  it  and  me,  are  sending  stuff  all  over  the  world.  I 
like  to  think  that  somewhere,  maybe  in  China,  they  are  riding 
on  our  rails  and  fighting  with  guns  made  from  our  steel.  May 
be  you  don't  understand  that." 

"I  think  I  do." 


146 A  POOR  WISE  MAN     

"Well,  that's  the  way  I  feel  about  it,  anyhow.  And  this 
Bolshevist  stuff  gets  under  my  skin.  I've  got  a  home  and  a 
family  here.  I  started  in  to  work  when  I  was  thirteen,  and 
all  I've  got  I've  made  and  saved  right  here.  It  isn't  much,  but 
it's  mine." 

Willy  Cameron  was  lighting  his  pipe.  He  nodded.  Mr. 
Hendricks  bent  forward  and  pointed  a  finger  at  him. 

"And  to  govern  this  city,  who  do  you  think  the  labor  ele 
ment  is  going  to  put  up  and  probably  elect  ?  We're  an  indus 
trial  city,  son,  with  a  big  labor  vote,  and  if  it  stands  together 
- — they're  being  swindled  into  putting  up  as  an  honest  candi 
date  one  of  the  dirtiest  radicals  in  the  country.  That  man 
Akers." 

He  got  up  and  closed  the  door. 

"I  don't  want  Edith  to  hear  me,"  he  said.  "He's  a  friend 
of  hers.  But  he's  a  bad  actor,  son.  He's  wrong  with  women, 
for  one  thing,  and  when  I  think  that  all  he's  got  to  oppose 

him  is  Howard  Cardew "  Mr.  Hendricks  got  up,  and  took 

a  nervous  turn  about  the  room. 

"Maybe  you  know  that  Cardew  nas  a  daughter?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  I  hear  a  good  many  things,  one  way  and  another,  and 
my  wife  likes  a  bit  of  gossip.  She  knows  them  both  by  sight, 
and  she  ran  into  them  one  day  in  the  tea  room  of  the  Saint 
Elmo,  sitting  in  a  corner,  and  the  girl  had  her  back  to  the 
room.  I  don't  like  the  look  of  that,  Cameron." 

Willy  Cameron  got  up  and  closed  the  window.  He  stood 
there,  with  his  back  to  the  light,  for  a  full  minute.  Then: 

"I  think  there  must  be  some  mistake  about  that,  Mr.  Hen 
dricks.  I  have  met  her.  She  isn't  the  sort  of  girl  who  would 
do  clandestine  things." 

Mr.  Hendricks  looked  up  quickly.  He  had  made  it  his  busi 
ness  to  study  men,  and  there  was  something  in  Willy  Cam 
eron's  voice  that  caught  his  attention,  and  turned  his  shrewd 
mind  to  speculation. 

"Maybe,"  he  conceded.  "Of  course,  anything  a  Cardew 
does  is  likely  to  be  magnified  in  this  town.  If  she's  as  keen 


"         A  POOR  WISE  MAN  147 

as  the  men  in  her  family,  she'll  get  wise  to  him  pretty  soon." 
Willy  Cameron  came  back  then,  but  Mr.  Hendricks  kept  his 
eyes  on  the  tip  of  his  cigar. 

"We've  got  to  lick  Cardew,"  he  said,  "but  I'm  cursed  if  I 
want  to  do  it  with  Akers." 

W7hen  there  was  no  comment,  he  looked  up.  Yes,  the  boy 
had  had  a  blow.  Mr.  Hendricks  was  sorry.  If  that  was  the 
way  the  wind  blew  it  was  hopeless.  It  was  more  than  that ;  it 
was  tragic. 

"Sorry  I  said  anything,  Cameron.  Didn't  know  you  knew 
her." 

"That's  all  right.  Of  course  I  don't  like  to  think  she  is  be 
ing  talked  about." 

"The  Cardews  are  always  being  talked  about.  You  couldn't 
drop  her  a  hint,  I  suppose?" 

"She  knows  what  I  think  about  Louis  Akers." 

He  made  a  violent  effort  and  pulled  himself  together.  "So 
it  is  Akers  and  Howard  Cardew,  and  one's  a  knave  and  one's 
a  poor  bet." 

"Right,"  said  Mr.  Hendricks.  "And  one's  Bolshevist,  if  I 
know  anything,  and  the  other  is  capital,  and  has  about  as  much 
chance  as  a  rich  man  to  get  through  the  eye  of  a  needle." 

Which  was  slightly  mixed,  owing  to  a  repressed  excitement 
now  making  itself  evident  in  Mr.  Hendricks's  voice. 

"Why  not  run  an  independent  candidate?"  Willy  Cameron 
asked  quietly.  "I've  been  shouting  about  the  plain  people. 
Why  shouldn't  they  elect  a  mayor?  There  is  a  lot  of  them." 

"That's  the  talk,"  said  Mr.  Hendricks,  letting  his  excitement 
have  full  sway.  "They  could.  They  could  run  this  town  and 
run^it  right,  if  they'd  take  the  trouble.  Now  look  here,  son,  I 
don't  usually  talk  about  myself,  but— I'm  honest.  I  don't  say 
I  wouldn't  get  off  a  street-car  without  paying  my  fare  if  the 
conductor  didn't  lift  it!  But  I'm  honest.  I  don't  lie.  I  keep 
my  word.  And  I  live  clean— which  you  can't  say  for  Lou 
Akers.  Why  shouldn't  I  run  on  an  independent  ticket?  I 
mightn't  be  elected,  but  I'd  make  a  damned  good  try." 


148 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

He  stood  up,  and  Willy  Cameron  rose  also  and  held  out  his 
hand. 

"I  don't  know  that  my  opinion  is  of  any  value,  Mr.  Hen- 
dricks.  But  I  hope  you  get  it,  and  I  think  you  have  a  good 
chance.  If  I  can  do  anything " 

"Do  anything!  What  do  you  suppose  I  came  here  for? 
You're  going  to  elect  me.  You're  going  to  make  speeches  and 
kiss  babies,  and  tell  the  ordinary  folks  they're  worth  some 
thing  after  all.  You  got  me  started  on  this  thing,  and  now 
you've  got  to  help  me  out." 

The  future  maker  of  mayors  here  stepped  back  in  his 
amazement,  and  Jinx  emitted  a  piercing  howl.  When  peace 
was  restored  the  F.  M.  of  M.  had  got  his  breath,  and  he 
said: 

"I  couldn't  remember  my  own  name  before  an  audience,  Mr. 
Hendricks." 

"You're  fluent  enough  in  that  back  room  of  yours." 

"That's  different." 

"The  people  we're  going  after  don't  want  oratory.  They 
want  good,  straight  talk,  and  a  fellow  behind  it  who  doesn't 
believe  the  country's  headed  straight  for  perdition.  We've  had 
enough  calamity  howlers.  You've  got  the  way  out.  The  plain 
people.  The  hope  of  the  nation.  And,  by  God,  you  love  your 
country,  and  not  for  what  you  can  get  out  of  it.  That's  a 
thing  a  fellow's  got  to  have  inside  him.  He  can't  pretend  it  and 
get  it  over." 

In  the  end  the  F.  M.  of  M.  capitulated. 

It  was  late  when  Mr.  Hendricks  left.  He  went  away  with 
all  the  old  envelopes  in  his  pockets  covered  with  memoranda. 

"Just  wait  a  minute,  son,"  he  would  say.  "I've  got  to  make 
some  speeches  myself.  Repeat  that,  now.  'Sins  of  omission 
are  as  great,  even  greater  than  sins  of  commission.  The 
lethargic  citizen  throws  open  the  gates  to  revolution/  How  do 
you  spell  'lethargic'  ?" 

But  it  was  not  Hendricks  and  his  campaign  that  kept  the 
F.  M.  of  M.  awake  until  dawn.  He  sat  in  front  of  his  soft 
coal  fire,  and  when  it  died  to  gray-white  ash  he  still  sat 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 149 

there,  unconscious  of  the  chill  of  the  spring  night.  Mostly 
he  thought  of  Lily,  and  of  Louis  Akers,  big  and  handsome,  of 
his  insolent  eyes  and  his  self-indulgent  mouth.  Into  that 
curious  whirlpool  that  is  the  mind  came  now  and  then  other 
visions :  His  mother  asleep  in  her  chair ;  the  men  in  the  War 
Department  who  had  turned  him  down;  a  girl  at  home  who 
had  loved  him,  and  made  him  feel  desperately  unhappy  be 
cause  he  could  not  love  her  in  return.  Was  love  always  like 
that?  If  it  was  what  He  intended,  why  was  it  so  often  without 
reciprocation  ? 

He  took  to  walking  about  the  room,  according  to  his  old 
habit,  and  obediently  Jinx  followed  him. 

It  was  four  by  his  alarm  clock  when  Edith  knocked  at  his 
door.  She  was  in  a  wrapper  flung  over  her  nightgown,  and 
with  her  hair  flying  loose  she  looked  childish  and  very 
small. 

"I  wish  you  would  go  to  bed,"  she  said,  rather  petulantly. 
"Are  you  sick,  or  anything  ?" 

"I  was  thinking,  Edith.  I'm  sorry.  I'll  go  at  once.  Why 
aren't  you  asleep  ?" 

"I  don't  sleep  much  lately."  Their  voices  were  cautious.  "I 
never  go  to  sleep  until  you're  settled  down,  anyhow." 

"Why  not  ?    Am  I  noisy  ?" 

"It's  not  that." 

She  went  away,  a  drooping,  listless  figure  that  climbed 
the  stairs  slowly  and  left  him  in  the  doorway,  puzzled  and 
uncomfortable. 

At  six  that  morning  Dan,  tip-toeing  downstairs  to  warm  his 
left-over  coffee  and  get  his  own  breakfast,  heard  a  voice  from 
Willy  Cameron's  room,  and  opened  the  door.  Willy  Cameron 
was  sitting  up  in  bed  with  his  eyes  closed  and  his  arms  ex 
tended,  and  was  concluding  a  speech  to  a  dream  audience  in 
deep  and  oratorical  tones. 

"By  God,  it  is  time  the  plain  people  know  their  power." 

Dan  grinned,  and,  his  ideas  of  humor  being  rather  primi 
tive,  he  edged  his  way  into  the  room  and  filled  the  orator's 
sponge  with /icy  water  from  the  pitcher. 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 


"All  right,  old  top,"  he  said,  "but  it  is  also  time  the  plain 
people  got  up." 

Then  he  flung  the  sponge  and  departed  with  extreme  expedi 
tion. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

IT  was  not  until  a  week  had  passed  after  Louis  Akers'  visit 
to  the  house  that  Lily's  family  learned  of  it. 

Lily's  state  of  mind  during  that  week  had  been  an  unhappy 
one.  She  magnified  the  incident  until  her  nerves  were  on  edge, 
and  Grace,  finding  her  alternating  between  almost  demonstra 
tive  affection  and  strange  aloofness,  was  bewildered  and  hurt. 
Mademoiselle  watched  her  secretly,  shook  her  head,  and  set 
herself  to  work  to  find  out  what  was  wrong.  It  was,  in  the 
end,  Mademoiselle  who  precipitated  the  crisis. 

Lily  had  not  intended  to  make  a  secret  of  the  visit,  but  as 
time  went  on  she  found  it  increasingly  difficult  to  tell  about  it. 
She  should,  she  knew,  have  spoken  at  once,  and  it  would  be 
hard  to  explain  why  she  had  delayed. 

She  meant  to  go  to  her  father  with  it.  It  was  he  who  had 
forbidden  her  to  see  Akers,  for  one  thing.  And  she  felt  nearer 
to  her  father  than  to  her  mother,  always.  Since  her  return 
she  had  developed  an  almost  passionate  admiration  for  How 
ard,  founded  perhaps  on  her  grandfather's  attitude  toward 
him.  She  was  strongly  partizan,  and  she  watched  her  father, 
day  after  day,  fighting  his  eternal  battles  with  Anthony,  some 
times  winning,  often  losing,  but  standing  for  a  principle  like 
a  rock  while  the  seas  of  old  Anthony's  wrath  washed  over 
and  often  engulfed  him. 

She  was  rather  wistful  those  days,  struggling  with  her  own 
perplexities,  and  blindly  reaching  out  for  a  hand  to  help  her. 
But  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  confession.  She  would 
wander  into  her  father's  dressing-room  before  she  went  to  bed, 
and,  sitting  on  the  arm  of  his  deep  chair,  would  try  indirectly 
to  get  him  to  solve  the  problems  that  were  troubling  her.  But 
he  was  inarticulate  and  rather  shy  with  her.  He  had  diffi 
culty,  sometimes,  after  her  long  absence  at  school  and  camp, 
in  realizing  her  as  the  little  girl  who  had  once  begged  for  his 
neckties  to  make  into  doll  frocks. 


152 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

Once  she  said : 

"Could  you  love  a  person  you  didn't  entirely  respect,  father  ?" 

"Love  is  founded  on  respect,  Lily." 

She  pondered  that.    She  felt  that  he  was  wrong. 

"But  it  does  happen,  doesn't  it?"  she  had  persisted. 

He  had  been  accustomed  to  her  searchings  for  interesting 
abstractions  for  years.  She  used  to  talk  about  religion  in  the 
same  way.  So  he  smiled  and  said: 

"There  is  a  sort  of  infatuation  that  is  based  on  something 
quite  different." 

"On  what?" 

But  he  had  rather  floundered  there.  He  could  not  discuss 
physical  attraction  with  her. 

"We're  getting  rather  deep  for  eleven  o'clock  at  night,  aren't 
we?" 

After  a  short  silence : 

"Do  you  mind  speaking  about  Aunt  Elinor,  father?" 

"No,  dear.    Although  it  is  rather  a  painful  subject." 

"But  if  she  is  happy,  why  is  it  painful  ?" 

"Well,  because  Doyle  is  the  sort  of  man  he  is." 

"You  mean — because  he  is  unfaithful  to  her?    Or  was?" 

He  was  very  uncomfortable. 

"That  is  one  reason  for  it,  of  course.    There  are  others." 

"But  if  he  is  faithful  to  her  now,  father?  Don't  you  think, 
whatever  a  man  has  been,  if  he  really  cares  for  a  woman  it 
makes  him  over  ?" 

"Sometimes,  not  always."  The  subject  was  painful  to  him. 
He  did  not  want  his  daughter  to  know  the  sordid  things  of 
life.  But  he  added,  gallantly:  "Of  course  a  good  woman  can 
do  almost  anything  she  wants  with  a  man,  if  he  cares  for 
her." 

She  lay  awake  almost  all  night,  thinking  that  over. 

On  the  Sunday  following  Louis  Akers'  call  Mademoiselle 
learned  of  it,  by  the  devious  route  of  the  servants'  hall,  and  she 
went  to  Lily  at  once,  yearning  and  anxious,  and  in  her  best  lace 
collar.  She  needed  courage,  and  to  be  dressed  in  her  best  gave 
her  moral  strength. 


_  A  POOR  WISE  MAN  _  153 

"It  is  not,"  she  said,  "that  they  wish  to  curtail  your  liberty, 
Lily.  But  to  have  that  man  come  here,  when  he  knows  he  is  not 
wanted,  to  force  himself  on  you  -  " 

"I  need  not  have  seen  him.    I  wanted  to  see  him." 

Mademoiselle  waved  her  hands  despairingly. 

"If  they  find  it  out  !"  she  wailed. 
'"They  will.    I  intend  to  tell  them." 

But  Mademoiselle  made  her  error  there.  She  was  fearful 
of  Grace's  attitude,  unless  she  forewarned  her,  and  Grace, 
frightened,  immediately  made  it  a  matter  of  a  family  con 
clave.  She  had  not  intended  to  include  Anthony,  but  he 
came  in  on  an  excited  speech  from  Howard,  and  heard  it 
all. 

The  result  was  that  instead  of  Lily  going  to  them  with 
her  confession,  she  was  summoned,  to  find  her  family  a  unit 
for  once  and  combined  against  her.  She  was  not  to  see  Louis 
Akers  again,  or  the  Doyles. 

They  demanded  a  promise,  but  she  refused.  Yet  even  then, 
standing  before  them,  forced  to  a  defiance  she  did  not  feel,  she 
was  puzzled  as  well  as  angry.  They  were  wrong,  and  yet  in 
some  strange  way  they  were  right,  too.  She  was  Cardew 
enough  to  get  their  point  of  view.  But  she  was  Cardew  enough, 
too,  to  defy  them. 

She  did  it  rather  gently. 

"You  must  understand,"  she  said,  her  hands  folded  in  front 
of  her,  "that  it  is  not  so  much  that  I  —  care  to  see  the  people 
you  are  talking  about.  It  is  that  I  feel  I  have  the  right  to 
choose  my  own  friends." 

"Friends!"   sneered   old   Anthony.     "A  third-rate   lawyer, 


"That  is  not  the  point,  grandfather.  I  went  away  to 
school  when  I  was  a  little  girl.  I  have  been  away  for  five 
years.  You  cannot  seem  to  realize  that  I  am  a  woman 
now,  not  a  child.  You  bring  me  in  here  like  a  bad  child." 

In  the  end  old  Anthony  had  slammed  out  of  the  room. 
There  were  arguments  after  that,  tears  on  Grace's  part,  per 
suasion  on  Howard's;  but  Lily  had  frozen  against  what  she 


154 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

considered  their  tyranny,  and  Howard  found  in  her  a  sort  of 
passive  resistance,  that  drove  him  frantic. 

"Very  well,"  he  said  finally.  "You  have  the  arrogance  of 
youth,  and  its  cruelty,  Lily.  And  you  are  making  us  all  suffer 
without  reason." 

"Don't  you  think  I  might  say  that  too,  father  ?" 

"Are  you  in  love  with  this  man?" 

"I  have  only  seen  him  four  times.  If  you  would  give  me 
some  reasons  for  all  this  fuss " 

"There  are  things  I  cannot  explain  t  >  you.  You  wouldn't 
understand." 

"About  his  moral  character?" 

Howard  was  rather  shocked.    He  hesitated: 

"Yes." 

"Will  you  tell  me  what  they  are?" 

"Good  heavens,  no  !"  he  exploded.  "The  man's  a  radical,  too. 
That  in  itself  ought  to  be  enough." 

"You  can't  condemn  a  man  for  his  political  opinions." 

"Political  opinions !" 

"Besides/'  she  said,  looking  at  him  with  her  direct  gaze, 
"isn't  there  some  reason  in  what  the  radicals  believe,  father? 
Maybe  it  is  a  dream  that  can't  come  true,  but  it  is  rather  a 
fine  dream,  isn't  it?" 

It  was  then  that  Howard  followed  his  father's  example, 
and  flung  out  of  the  room. 

After  that  Lily  went,  very  deliberately  and  without  secrecy, 
to  the  house  on  Cardew  Way.  She  found  a  welcome  there, 
not  so  marked  on  her  Aunt  Elinor's  part  as  on  Doyle's,  but  a 
welcome.  She  found  approval,  too,  where  at  home  she  had 
only  suspicion  and  a  solicitude  based  on  anxiety.  She  found 
a  clever  little  circle  there,  and  sometimes  a  cultured  one ;  un 
derpaid,  disgruntled,  but  brilliant  professors  from  the  college, 
a  journalist  or  two,  a  city  councilman,  even  prosperous  mer 
chants,  and  now  and  then  strange  bearded  foreigners  who  were 
passing  through  the  city  and  who  talked  brilliantly  of  the  vision 
of  Lenine  and  the  future  of  Russia. 

She  learned  that  the  true  League  of  Nations  was  not  a 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 155 

political  alliance,  but  a  union  of  all  the  leveled  peoples  of  the 
world.  She  had  no  curiosity  as  to  how  this  leveling  was  to 
be  brought  about.  All  she  knew  was  that  these  brilliant  dream 
ers  made  her  welcome,  and  that  instead  of  the  dinner  chat 
at  home,  small  personalities,  old  Anthony's  comments  on  his 
food,  her  father's  heavy  silence,  here  was  world  talk,  vast  in 
its  scope,  idealistic,  intoxicating. 

Almost  always  Louis  Akers  was  there;  it  pleased  her  to 
see  how  the  other  men  listened  to  him,  deferred  to  his  views, 
laughed  at  his  wit.  She  did  not  know  the  care  exercised  in 
selecting  the  groups  she  was  to  meet,  the  restraints  imposed  on 
them.  And  she  could  not  know  that  from  her  visits  the  Doyle 
establishment  was  gaining  a  prestige  totally  new  to  it,  an  almost 
respectability. 

Because  of  those  small  open  forums,  sometimes  noted  in  the 
papers,  those  innocuous  gatherings,  it  was  possible  to  hold  in 
that  very  room  other  meetings,  not  open  and  not  innocuous, 
where  practical  plans  took  the  place  of  discontented  yearn 
ings,  and  where  the  talk  was  more  often  of  fighting  than  of 
brotherhood. 

She  was,  by  the  first  of  May,  frankly  infatuated  with  Louis 
Akers,  yet  with  a  curious  knowledge  that  what  she  felt  was 
infatuation  only.  She  would  lie  wide-eyed  at  night  and  re 
hearse  painfully  the  weaknesses  she  saw  so  clearly  in  him. 
But  the  next  time  she  saw  him  she  would  yield  to  his  arms, 
passively  but  without  protest.  She  did  not  like  his  caresses,  but 
the  memory  of  them  thrilled  her. 

She  was  following  the  first  uncurbed  impulse  of  her  life. 
Guarded  and  more  or  less  isolated  from  other  youth,  she 
had  always  lived  a  strong  inner  life,  purely  mental,  largely 
interrogative.  She  had  had  strong  childish  impulses,  sometimes 
of  pure  affection,  occasionally  of  sheer  contrariness,  but  al- 
w;|iys  her  impulses  had  been  curbed. 

("Do  be  a  little  lady,"  Mademoiselle  would  say. 

|She  had  got,  somehow,  to  feel  that  impulse  was  wrong.  It 
ranked  with  disobedience.  It  partook  of  the  nature  of  sin. 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 


People  who  did  wicked  things  did  them  on  impulse,  and  were 
sorry  ever  after;  but  then  it  was  too  late. 

As  she  grew  older,  she  added  something  to  that.  Impulses 
of  the  mind  led  to  impulses  of  the  body,  and  impulse  was 
wrong.  Passion  was  an  impulse  of  the  body.  Therefore  it  was 
sin.  It  was  the  one  sin  one  could  not  talk  about,  so  one  was 
never  quite  clear  about  it.  However,  one  thing  seemed  beyond 
dispute  ;  it  was  predominatingly  a  masculine  wickedness.  Good 
women  were  beyond  and  above  it,  its  victims  sometimes,  like 
those  girls  at  the  camp,  or  its  toys,  like  the  sodden  creatures  in 
the  segregated  district  who  hung,  smiling  their  tragic  smiles, 
around  their  doorways  in  the  late  afternoons. 

But  good  women  were  not  like  that.  If  they  were,  then 
they  were  not  good.  They  did  not  lie  awake  remembering  the 
savage  clasp  of  a  man's  arms,  knowing  all  the  time  that  this 
was  not  love,  but  something  quite  different.  Or  if  it  was  love, 
that  it  was  painful  and  certainly  not  beautiful. 

Sometimes  she  thought  about  Willy  Cameron.  He  had  had 
very  exalted  ideas  about  love.  He  used  to  be  rather  oratorical 
about  it. 

"It's  the  fundamental  principle  of  the  universe,"  he  would 
say,  waving  his  pipe  wildly.  "But  it  means  suffering,  dear 
child.  It  feeds  on  martyrdom  and  fattens  on  sacrifice.  And 
as  the  h.  c.  of  1.  doesn't  affect  either  commodity,  it  lives 
forever." 

"What  does  it  do,  Willy,  if  it  hasn't  any  martyrdom  and 
sacrifice  to  feed  on?  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  when  it  is  re 
turned  and  everybody  is  happy,  it  dies  ?" 

"Practically,"  he  had  said.  "It  then  becomes  domestic  con 
tentment,  and  expresses  itself  in  the  shape  of  butcher's  bills  and 
roast  chicken  on  Sundays." 

But  that  had  been  in  the  old  care-free  days,  before  Willy 
had  thought  he  loved  her,  and  before  she  had  met  Louis. 

She  made  a  desperate  effort  one  day  to  talk  to  her  mother. 
She  wanted,  somehow,  to  be  set  right  in  her  own  eyes.  But 
Grace  could  not  meet  her  even  half  way;  she  did  not  know 
anything  about  different  sorts  of  love,  but  she  did  know  that 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 157 

love  was  beautiful,  if  you  met  the  right  man  and  married  him. 
But  it  had  to  be  some  one  who  was  your  sort,  because  in  the 
end  marriage  was  only  a  sort  of  glorified  companionship. 

The  moral  in  that,  so  obviously  pointed  at  Louis  Akers, 
invalidated  the  rest  of  it  for  Lily. 

She  was  in  a  state  of  constant  emotional  excitement  by  that 
time,  and  it  was  only  a  night  or  two  after  that  she  quarreled 
with  her  grandfather.  There  had  been  a  dinner  party,  a  heavy, 
pompous  affair,  largely  attended,  for  although  spring  was  well 
advanced,  the  usual  May  hegira  to  the  country  or  the  coast  had 
not  yet  commenced.  Industrial  conditions  in  and  around  the 
city  were  too  disturbed  for  the  large  employers  to  get  away, 
and  following  Lent  there  had  been  a  sort  of  sporadic  gayety, 
covering  a  vast  uneasiness.  There  was  to  be  no  polo  after  all. 

Lily,  doing  her  best  to  make  the  dinner  a  success,  found 
herself  contrasting  it  with  the  gatherings  at  the  Doyle  house, 
and  found  it  very  dull.  These  men,  with  their  rigidity  of 
mind,  invited  because  they  held  her  grandfather's  opinions, 
or  because  they  kept  their  own  convictions  to  themselves, 
seemed  to  her  of  a  bygone  time.  She  did  not  see  in  them  a  safe 
counterpoise  to  a  people  which  in  its  reaction  from  the  old 
order,  was  ready  to  swing  to  anything  that  was  new.  She  saw 
only  a  dozen  or  so  elderly  gentlemen,  immaculate  and  pros 
perous,  peering  through  their  glasses  after  a  world  which  had 
passed  them  by. 

They  were  very  grave  that  night.  The  situation  was  serious. 
The  talk  turned  inevitably  to  the  approaching  strike,  and 
from  that  to  a  possible  attempt  on  the  part  of  the  radical  ele-  \ 
ment  toward  violence.  The  older  men  pooh-poohed  that,  but  i 
the  younger  ones  were  uncertain.  Isolated  riotings,  yes.  But 
a  coordinated  attempt  against  the  city,  no.  Labour  was  greedy, 
but  it  was  law-abiding.  Ah,  but  it  was  being  fired  by  incen 
diary  literature.  Then  what  were  the  police  doing?  They 
were  doing  everything.  They  were  doing  nothing.  The  gov 
ernor  was  secretly  a  radical.  Nonsense.  The  governor  was 
saying  little,  but  was  waiting  and  watching.  A  general  strike 
was  only  another  word  for  revolution,  No.  It  would  be 


158 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

attempted,  perhaps,  but  only  to  demonstrate  the  solidarity  of 
labor. 

After  a  time  Lily  made  a  discovery.  She  found  that  even 
into  that  carefully  selected  gathering  had  crept  a  surprising 
spirit,  based  on  the  necessity  for  concession ;  a  few  men 
who  shared  her  father's  convictions,  and  went  even  further. 
One  or  two,  even,  who,  cautiously  for  fear  of  old  Anthony's 
ears,  voiced  a  belief  that  before  long  invested  money  would 
be  given  a  fixed  return,  all  surplus  profits  to  be  divided  among 
the  workers,  the  owners  and  the  government. 

"What  about  the  lean  years?"  some  one  asked. 

The  government's  share  of  all  business  was  to  form  a  con 
tingent  fund  for  such  emergencies,  it  seemed. 

Lily  listened  attentively.  Was  it  because  they  feared  that 
if  they  did  not  voluntarily  divide  their  profits  they  would  be 
taken  from  them?  Enough  for  all,  and  to  none  too  much. 
Was  that  what  they  feared?  Or  was  it  a  sense  of  justice, 
belated  but  real  ? 

She  remembered  something  Jim  Doyle  had  said: 

"Labor  has  learned  its  weakness  alone,  its  strength  united. 
But  capital  has  not  learned  that  lesson.  It  will  not  take  a  loss 
for  a  principle.  It  will  not  unite.  It  is  suspicious  and  jeal 
ous,  so  it  fights  its  individual  battles  alone,  and  loses  in  the 
end." 

But  then  to  offset  that  there  was  something  Willy  Cameron 
had  said  one  day,  frying  doughnuts  for  her  with  one  hand,  and 
waving  the  fork  about  with  the  other. 

"Don't  forget  this,  oh  representative  of  the  plutocracy,"  he 
had  said.  "Capital  has  its  side,  and  a  darned  good  one,  too. 
It's  got  a  sense  of  responsibility  to  the  country,  which  labor 
may  have  individually  but  hasn't  got  collectively." 

These  men  at  the  table  were  grave,  burdened  with  respon 
sibility.  Her  father.  Even  her  grandfather.  It  was  no  longer 
a  question  of  profit.  It  was  a  question  of  keeping  the  country 
going.  They  were  like  men  forced  to  travel,  and  breasting  a 
strong  head  wind.  There  were  some  there  who  would  turn, 
in  time,  and  travel  with  the  gale.  But  there  were  others  like 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 159 

her  grandfather,  obstinate  and  secretly  frightened,  who  would 
refuse.  Who  would,  to  change  the  figure,  sit  like  misers  over 
their  treasure,  an  eye  on  the  window  of  life  for  thieves. 

She  went  upstairs,  perplexed  and  thoughtful.  Some  time 
later  she  heard  the  family  ascending,  the  click  of  her  mother's 
high  heels  on  the  polished  wood  of  the  staircase,  her  father's 
sturdy  tread,  and  a  moment  or  two  later  her  grandfather's  slow, 
rather  weary  step.  Suddenly  she  felt  sorry  for  him,  for  his  age, 
for  his  false  gods  of  power  and  pride,  for  the  disappointment 
she  was  to  him.  She  flung  open  her  door  impulsively  and  con 
fronted  him. 

"I  just  wanted  to  say  good-night,  grandfather,"  she  said 
breathlessly.  "And  that  I  am  sorry." 

"Sorry  for  what?" 

"Sorry—  "  she  hesitated.  "Because  we  see  things  so  dif 
ferently." 

Lily  was  almost  certain  that  she  caught  a  flash  of  tenderness 
in  his  eyes,  and  certainly  his  voice  had  softened. 

"You  looked  very  pretty  to-night,"  he  said.  But  he  passed 
on,  and  she  had  again  the  sense  of  rebuff  with  which  he  met 
all  her  small  overtures  at  that  time.  However,  he  turned  at 
the  foot  of  the  upper  flight. 

"I  would  like  to  talk  to  you,  Lily.  Will  you  come  up 
stairs  ?" 

She  had  been  summoned  before  to  those  mysterious  upper 
rooms  of  his,  where  entrance  was  always  by  request,  and 
general!}/  such  requests  presaged  trouble.  But  she  followed 
him  light-heartedly  enough  then.  His  rare  compliment  had 
pleased  and  touched  her. 

The  lamp  beside  his  high-backed,  almost  throne-like  chair 
was  lighted,  and  in  the  dressing-room  beyond  his  valet  was 
moving  about,  preparing  for  the  night.  Anthony  dismissed 
the  man,  and  sat  down  under  the  lamp. 

"You  heard  the  discussion  downstairs,  to-night,  Lily.  Per 
sonally  I  anticipate  no  trouble,  but  if  there  is  any  it  may  be 
directed  at  this  house."  He  smiled  grimly.  "I  cannot  rely  on 
my  personal  popularity  to  protect  me,  I  fear.  Your  mother 


160 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

obstinately  refuses  to  leave  your  father,  but  I  have  decided 
to  send  you  to  your  grand-aunt  Caroline." 

"Aunt  Caroline !  She  doesn't  care  for  me,  grandfather.  She 
never  has." 

"That  is  hardly  pertinent,  is  it  ?  The  situation  is  this :  She 
intends  to  open  the  Newport  house  early  in  June,  and  at  my 
request  she  will  bring  you  out  there.  Next  fall  we  will  do 
something  here ;  I  haven't  decided  just  what." 

There  was  a  sudden  wild  surge  of  revolt  in  Lily.  She 
hated  Newport.  Grand-aunt  Caroline  was  a  terrible  person. 
She  was  like  Anthony,  domineering  and  cruel,  and  with  even 
less  control  over  her  tongue. 

"I  need  not  point  out  the  advantages  of  the  plan,"  said  An 
thony  suavely.  "There  may  be  trouble  here,  although  I  doubt 
it.  But  in  any  event  you  will  have  to  come  out,  and  this  seems 
an  excellent  way." 

"Is  it  a  good  thing  to  spend  a  lot  of  money  now,  grand 
father,  when  there  is  so  much  discontent?" 

Old  Anthony  had  a  small  jagged  vein  down  the  center  of 
his  forehead,  and  in  anger  or  his  rare  excitements  it  stood  out 
like  a  scar.  Lily  saw  it  now,  but  his  voice  was  quiet  enough. 

"I  consider  it  vitally  important  to  the  country  to  continue  its 
social  life  as  before  the  war." 

"You  mean,  to  show  we  are  not  frightened  ?" 

"Frightened!  Good  God,  nobody's  frightened.  It  will  take 
more  than  a  handful  of  demagogues  to  upset  this  govern 
ment.  Which  brings  me  to  a  subject  you  insist  on  reopening, 
by  your  conduct.  I  have  reason  to  believe  that  you  are  still 
going  to  that  man's  house." 

He  never  called  Doyle  by  name  if  he  could  avoid  it. 

"I  have  been  there  several  times." 

"After  you  were  forbidden  ?" 

His  tone  roused  every  particle  of  antagonism  in  her.  She 
flushed. 

"Perhaps  because  I  was  forbidden,"  she  said,  slowly.  "Hasn't 
it  occurred  to  you  that  I  may  consider  your  attitude  very 
unjust?" 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 161 

If  she  looked  for  an  outburst  from  him  it  did  not  come. 
He  stood  for  a  moment,  deep  in  thought. 

"You  understand  that  this  Doyle  once  tried  to  assassinate 
me?" 

"I  know  that  he  tried  to  beat  you,  grandfather.  I  am  sorry, 
but  that  was  long  ago.  And  there  was  a  reason  for  it,  wasn't 
there?" 

"I  see,"  he  said,  slowly.  "What  you  are  conveying  to  me, 
not  too  delicately,  is  that  you  have  definitely  allied  yourself 
with  my  enemies.  That,  here  in  my  own  house,  you  intend 
to  defy  me.  That,  regardless  of  my  wishes  or  commands, 
while  eating  my  food,  you  purpose  to  traffic  with  a  man  who 
has  sworn  to  get  me,  sooner  or  later.  Am  I  correct?" 

"I  have  only  said  that  I  see  no  reason  why  I  should  not  visit 
Aunt  Elinor." 

"And  that  you  intend  to.  Do  I  understand  also  that  you  re 
fuse  to  go  to  Newport  ?" 

"I  daresay  I  shall  have  to  go,  if  you  send  me.  I  don't  want 
to  go." 

"Very  well.  I  am  glad  we  have  had  this  little  talk.  It 
makes  my  own  course  quite  plain.  Good-night." 

He  opened  the  door  for  her  and  she  went  out  and  down  the 
stairs.  She  felt  very  calm,  and  as  though  something  irrevocable 
had  happened.  With  her  anger  at  her  grandfather  there  was 
mixed  a  sort  of  pity  for  him,  because  she  knew  that  nothing 
he  could  do  would  change  the  fundamental  situation.  Even  if 
he  locked  her  up,  and  that  was  possible,  he  would  know  that 
he  had  not  really  changed  things,  or  her.  She  felt  surpris 
ingly  strong.  All  these  years  that  she  had  feared  him,  and  yet 
when  it  came  to  a  direct  issue,  he  was  helpless !  What  had  he 
but  his  wicked  tongue,  and  what  did  that  matter  to  deaf 
ears? 

She  found  her  maid  gone,  and  Mademoiselle  waiting  to 
help  her  undress.  Mademoiselle  often  did  that.  It  made  her 
feel  still  essential  in  Lily's  life. 

"A  long  seance !"  she  said.  "Your  mother  told  me  to-night. 
It  is  Newport  ?" 


162 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

"He  wants  me  to  go.  Unhook  me,  Mademoiselle,  and  then 
run  off  and  go  to  bed.  You  ought  not  to  wait  up  like 
this." 

"Newport !"  said  Mademoiselle,  deftly  slipping  off  the  white 
and  silver  that  was  Lily's  gown.  "It  will  be  wonderful,  dear. 
And  you  will  be  a  great  success.  You  are  very  beautiful." 

"I  am  not  going  to  Newport,  Mademoiselle." 

Mademoiselle  broke  into  rapid  expostulation,  in  French. 
Every  girl  wanted  to  make  her  debut  at  Newport.  Here  it  was 
all  industry,  money,  dirt.  Men  who  slaved  in  offices  daily. 
At  Newport  was  gathered  the  real  leisure  class  of  America, 
those  who  knew  how  to  play,  who  lived.  But  Lily,  taking  off 
her  birthday  pearls  before  the  mirror  of  her  dressing  table, 
only  shook  her  head. 

"I'm  not  going,"  she  said.  "I  might  as  well  tell  you,  for 
you'll  hear  about  it  later.  I  have  quarreled  with  him,  very 
badly.  I  think  he  intends  to  lock  me  up." 

"C'est  impossible!"  cried  Mademoiselle. 

But  a  glance  at  Lily's  set  face  in  the  mirror  told  her  it  was 
true. 

She  went  away  very  soon,  sadly  troubled.  There  were  bad 
times  coming.  The  old  peaceful  quiet  days  were  gone,  for  age 
and  obstinacy  had  met  youth  and  the  arrogance  of  youth,  and 
it  was  to  be  battle. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

BUT  there  was  a  truce  for  a  time.  Lily  came  and  went  with 
out  interference,  and  without  comment.  Nothing  more 
was  said  about  Newport.  She  motored  on  bright  days  to  the 
country  club,  lunched  and  played  golf  or  tennis,  rode  along  the 
country  lanes  with  Pink  Denslow,  accepted  such  invitations 
as  came  her  way  cheerfully  enough  but  without  enthusiasm, 
and  was  very  gentle  to  her  mother.  But  Mademoiselle  found 
her  tense  and  restless,  as  though  she  were  waiting. 

And  there  were  times  when  she  disappeared  for  an  hour  or 
two  in  the  afternoons,  proffering  no  excuses,  and  came  back 
flushed,  and  perhaps  a  little  frightened.  On  the  evenings  that 
followed  those  small  excursions  she  was  particularly  gentle  to 
her  mother.  Mademoiselle  watched  and  waited  for  the  blow 
she  feared  was  about  to  fall.  She  felt  sure  that  the  girl  was 
seeing  Louis  Akers,  and  that  she  would  ultimately  marry  him. 
In  her  despair  she  fell  back  on  Willy  Cameron  and  persuaded 
Grace  to  invite  him  to  dinner.  It  was  meant  to  be  a  surprise 
for  Lily,  but  she  had  telephoned  at  seven  o'clock  that  she 
was  dining  at  the  Doyles'. 

It  was  that  evening  that  Willy  Cameron  learned  that  Mr. 
Hendricks  had  been  right  about  Lily.  He  and  Grace  dined 
alone,  for  Howard  was  away  at  a  political  conference,  and 
Anthony  had  dined  at  his  club.  And  in  the  morning  room 
after  dinner  Grace  found  herself  giving  him  her  confidence. 

"I  have  no  right  to  burden  you  with  our  troubles,  Mr.  Cam 
eron,"  Grace  said,  "but  she  is  so  fond  of  you,  and  she  Has 
great  respect  for  your  judgment.  If  you  could  only  talk  to  her 
about  the  anxiety  she  is  causing.  These  Doyles,  or  rather  Mr. 
Doyle — the  wife  is  Mr.  Cardew's  sister — are  putting  all  sorts 
of  ideas  into  her  head.  And  she  has  met  a  man  there,  a  Mr* 
Akers,  and — I'm  afraid  she  thinks  she  is  in  love  with  him,  Mr. 
Cameron." 

163 


fi64 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

He  met  her  eyes  gravely. 

"Have  you  tried  not  forbidding  her  to  go  to  the  Doyles  ?" 

"I  have  forbidden  her  nothing.     It  is  her  grandfather." 

"Then  it  seems  to  be  Mr.  Cardew  who  needs  to  be  talked  to, 
doesn't  it?"  he  said.  "I  wouldn't  worry  too  much,  Mrs.  Car- 
dew,  And  don't  hold  too  tight  a  rein." 

He  was  very  down-hearted  when  he  left.  Grace's  last  words 
placed  a  heavy  burden  on  him. 

"I  simply  feel,"  she  said,  "that  you  can  do  more  with  her 
than  we  can,  and  that  if  something  isn't  done  she  will  ruin 
her  life.  She  is  too  fine  and  wonderful  to  have  her  do 
that." 

To  picture  Lily  as  willfully  going  her  own  gait  at  that 
period  would  be  most  unfair.  She  was  suffering  cruelly;  the 
impulse  that  led  her  to  meet  Louis  Akers  against  her  family's 
wishes  was  irresistible,  but  there  was  a  new  angle  to  her  visits 
to  the  Doyle  house.  She  was  going  there  now,  not  so  much 
because  she  wished  to  go,  as  because  she  began  to  feel  that  her 
Aunt  Elinor  needed  her. 

There  was  something  mysterious  about  her  Aunt  Elinor, 
mysterious  and  very  sad.  Even  her  smile  had  pathos  in  it, 
and  she  was  smiling  less  and  less.  She  sat  in  those  bright 
little  gatherings,  in  them  but  not  of  them,  unbrilliant  and  very- 
quiet.  Sometimes  she  gave  Lily  the  sense  that  like  Lily  her 
self  she  was  waiting.  Waiting  for  what? 

Lily  had  a  queer  feeling  too,  once  or  twice,  that  Elinor  was 
afraid.  But  again,  afraid  of  what?  Sometimes  she  wondered 
if  Elinor  Doyle  was  afraid  of  her  husband ;  certainly  there  were 
times,  when  they  were  alone,  when  he  dropped  his  unctuous 
mask  and  held  Elinor  up  to  smiling  contempt. 

"You  can  see  what  a  clever  wife  I  have/'  he  said  once. 
"Sometimes  I  wonder,  Elinor,  how  you  have  lived  with  me  so 
long  and  absorbed  so  little  of  what  really  counts." 

"Perhaps  the  difficulty,"  Elinor  had  said  quietly,  "is  be 
cause  we  differ  as  to  what  really  counts." 

Lily  brought  Elinor  something  she  needed,  of  youth  and 
irresponsible  chatter,  and  in  the  end  the  girl  found  the  older 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 165 

woman  depending  on  her.  To  cut  her  off  from  that  small 
solace  was  unthinkable.  And  then  too  she  formed  Elinor's 
sole  link  with  her  former  world,  a  world  of  dinners  and  re 
ceptions,  of  clothes  and  horses  and  men  who  habitually  dressed 
for  dinner,  of  the  wealth  and  panoply  of  life.  A  world  in 
which  her  interest  strangely  persisted. 

"What  did  you  wear  at  the  country  club  dance  last  night?'5" 
she  would  ask. 

"A  rose-colored  chiffon  over  yellow.  It  gives  the  oddest 
effect,  like  an  Ophelia  rose." 

Or: 

"At  the  Mainwarings?    George  or  Albert?" 

"The  Alberts." 

"Did  they  ever  have  any  children?" 

One  day  she  told  her  about  not  going  to  Newport,  and  was 
surprised  to  see  Elinor  troubled. 

"Why  won't  you  go  ?    It  is  a  wonderful  house." 

"I  don't  care  to  go  away,  Aunt  Nellie."  She  called  her  that 
sometimes. 

Elinor  had  knitted  silently  for  a  little.    Then : 

"Do  you  mind  if  I  say  something  to  you?" 

"Say  anything  you  like,  of  course." 

"I  just — Lily,  don't  see  too  much  of  Louis  Akers.  Don't 
let  him  carry  you  off  your  feet.  He  is  good-looking,  but  if  you 
marry  him,  you  will  be  terribly  unhappy." 

"That  isn't  enough  to  say,  Aunt  Nellie,"  she  said  gravely. 
"You  must  have  a  reason." 

Elinor  hesitated. 

"I  don't  like  him.    He  is  a  man  of  very  impure  life." 

"That's  because  he  has  never  known  any  good  women." 
Lily  rose  valiantly  to  his  defense,  but  the  words  hurt  her. 
"Suppose  a  good  woman  came  into  his  life?  Couldn't  she 
change  him?" 

"I  don't  know,"  Elinor  said  helplessly.  "But  there  is  some 
thing  else.  It  will  cut  you  off  from  your  family." 

"You  did  that.  You  couldn't  stand  it,  either.  Y®u  know 
what  it's  like." 


166 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

"There  must  be  some  other  way.  That  is  no  reason  for 
marriage." 

"But — suppose  I  care  for  him  ?"  Lily  said,  shyly. 

"You  wouldn't  live  with  him  a  year.  There  are  different 
ways  of  caring,  Lily.  There  is  such  a  thing  as  being  carried 
away  by  a  man's  violent  devotion,  but  it  isn't  the  violent  love 
that  lasts." 

Lily  considered  that  carefully,  and  she  felt  that  there  was 
some  truth  in  it.  When  Louis  Akers  came  to  take  her  home 
that  night  he  found  her  unresponsive  and  thoughtful. 

"Mrs.  Doyle's  been  talking  to  you,"  he  said  at  last.  "She 
hates  me,  you  know." 

"Why  should  she  hate  you?" 

"Because,  with  all  her  vicissitudes,  she's  still  a  snob,"  he 
said  roughly.  "My  family  was  nothing,  so  I'm  nothing." 

"She  wants  me  to  be  happy,  Louis." 

"And  she  thinks  you  won't  be  with  me !" 

"I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  I  would  be."  She  made  an  ef 
fort  then  to  throw  off  the  strange  bond  that  held  her  to  him. 
"I  should  like  to  have  three  months,  Louis,  to  get  a — well, 
a  sort  of  perspective.  I  can't  think  clearly  when  you're  around, 
and " 

"And  I'm  always  around?  Thanks."  But  she  had  alarmed 
him.  "You're  hurting  me  awfully,  little  girl,"  he  said,  in  a 
different  tone.  "I  can't  live  without  seeing  you,  and  you 
know  it.  You're  all  I  have  in  life.  You  have  everything, 
wealth,  friends,  position.  You  could  play  for  three  months 
and  never  miss  me.  But  you  are  all  I  have." 

In  the  end  she  capitulated 

Jim  Doyle  was  very  content  those  days.  There  had  been  a 
time  when  Jim  Doyle  was  the  honest  advocate  of  labor,  a  flam 
ing  partizan  of  those  who  worked  with  their  hands.  But  he 
had  traveled  a  long  road  since  then,  from  dreamer  to  conspira 
tor.  Once  he  had  planned  to  build  up ;  now  he  plotted  to  tear 
down. 

His  weekly  paper  had  enormous  power.  To  the  workers  he 
had  begun  to  preach  class  consciousness,  and  the  doctrine  of 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 167 

being  true  to  their  class.  From  class  consciousness  to  class 
hatred  was  but  a  step.  Ostensibly  he  stood  for  a  vast  equality, 
world  wide  and  beneficent;  actually  he  preached  an  inflam 
mable  doctrine  of  an  earth  where  the  last  shall  be  first.  He 
advocated  the  overthrow  of  all  centralized  government,  and 
considered  the  wages  system  robbery.  Under  it  workers  were 
slaves,  and  employers  of  workers  slave-masters.  It  was  with 
such  phrases  that  he  had  for  months  been  consistently  in 
flaming  the  inflammable  foreign  element  in  and  around  the 
city,  and  not  the  foreign  element  only.  A  certain  percentage 
of  American-born  workmen  fell  before  the  hammer-like  blows 
of  his  words,  repeated  and  driven  home  each  week. 

He  had  no  scruples,  and  preached ..none.  Hej>reached  only 
revolt,  and  in  that  revolt" defiance  of  all  existing  laws.  He 
had  no  religion ;  Christ  to  him  was  a  pitiful  weakling,  a  historic 
victim  of  the  same  system  that  still  crucified  those  who  fought 
the  established  order.  In  his  new  world  there  would  be  no 
churches  and  no  laws.  He  advocated  bloodshed,  arson,  sabo 
tage  of  all  sorts,  as  a  means  to  an  end. 

Fanatic  he  was,  but  practical  fanatic,  and  the  more  danger 
ous  for  that.  He  had  viewed  the  failure  of  the  plan  to  cap 
ture  a  city  in  the  northwest  in  February  with  irritation,  but 
without  discouragement.  They  had  acted  prematurely  there 
and  without  sufficient  secrecy.  That  was  all.  The  plan  in 
itself  was  right.  And  he  had  watched  the  scant  reports  of 
the  uprising  in  the  newspapers  with  amusement  and  scorn. 
The  very  steps  taken  to  suppress  the  facts  showed  the  un 
easiness  of  the  authorities  and  left  the  nation  with  a  feeling 
of  false  security. 

The  people  were  always  like  that.  Twice  in  a  hundred  years 
France  had  experienced  the  commune.  Each  time  she  had 
been  warned,  and  each  time  she  had  waited  too  long.  Ever 
so  often  in  the  life  of  every  nation  came  these  periodic  out 
bursts  of  discontent,  economic  in  their  origin,  and  ran  their 
course  like  diseases,  contagious,  violent  and  deadly. 

The  commune  always  followed  long  and  costly  wars.  The 
people  would  dance,  but  they  revolted  at  paying  the  piper. 


168 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

The  plan  in  Seattle  had  been  well  enough  conceived;  the 
city  light  plant  was  to  have  been  taken  over  during  the  early 
evening  of  February  6,  and  at  ten  o'clock  that  night  the  city 
was  to  have  gone  dark.  But  the  reign  of  terrorization  that 
was  to  follow  had  revolted  Jim  Osborne,  one  of  their  leaders, 
and  from  his  hotel  bedroom  he  had  notified  the  authorities. 
Word  had  gone  out  to  "get"  Osborne. 

If  it  had  not  been  for  Osborne,  and  the  conservative  element 
behind  him,  a  flame  would  have  been  kindled  at  Seattle  that 
would  have  burnt  across  the  nation. 

Doyle  watched  Gompers  cynically.  He  considered  his  ad 
vocacy  of  patriotic  cooperation  between  labor  and  the  Govern 
ment  during  the  war  the  skillful  attitude  of  an  opportunist. 
Gompers  could  do  better  with  public  opinion  behind  him  than 
without  it.  He  was  an  opportunist,  riding  the  wave  which 
would  carry  him  farthest.  Playing  both  ends  against  the 
middle,  and  the  middle,  himself.  He  saw  Gompers,  watching 
the  release  of  tension  that  followed  the  armistice  and  seeing 
the  great  child  he  had  fathered,  grown  now  and  conscious  of 
its  power, — watching  it,  fully  aware  that  it  had  become 
stronger  than  he. 

Gompers,  according  to  Doyle,  had  ceased  to  be  a  leader  and 
become  a  follower,  into  strange  and  difficult  paths. 

The  war  had  made  labor's  day.  No  public  move  was  made 
without  consulting  organized  labor,  and  a  certain  element  in 
it  had  grown  drunk  with  power.  To  this  element  Doyle  ap 
pealed.  It  was  Doyle  who  wrote  the  carefully  prepared  in 
cendiary  speeches,  which  were  learned  verbatim  by  his  agents 
for  delivery.  For  Doyle  knew  one  thing,  and  knew  it  well. 
Labor,  thinking  along  new  lines,  must  think  along  the  same 
lines.  Be  taught  the  same  doctrines.  Be  pushed  in  one  direc 
tion 

There  were,  then,  two  Doyles,  one  the  poseur,  flaunting  his 
outrageous  doctrines  with  a  sardonic  grin,  gathering  about  him 
a  small  circle  of  the  intelligentsia,  and  too  openly  heterodox 
to  be  dangerous.  And  the  other,  secretly  plotting  against  the 
eity,  wary,  cautious,  practical  and  deadly,  waiting  to  overthrow 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN  169 

the  established  order  and  substitute  for  it  chaos.  It  was  only 
incidental  to  him  that  old  Anthony  should  go  with  the  rest. 

But  he  found  a  saturnine  pleasure  in  being  old  Anthony's 
Nemesis.  He  meant  to  be  that.  He  steadily  widened  the 
breach  between  Lily  and  her  family,  and  he  watched  the  prog 
ress  of  her  affair  with  Louis  Akers  with  relish.  He  had  not 
sought  this  particular  form  of  revenge,  but  Fate  had  thrust 
it  into  his  hands,  and  he  meant  to  be  worthy  of  the  oppor 
tunity. 

He  was  in  no  hurry.  He  had  extraordinary  patience,  and  he 
rather  liked  sitting  back  and  watching  the  slow  development 
of  his  plans.  It  was  like  chess;  it  was  deliberate  and  inevit 
able.  One  made  a  move,  and  then  sat  back  waiting  and  watch 
ing  while  the  other  side  countered  it,  or  fell,  v/ith  slow  agoniz 
ing,  into  the  trap, 

A  few  days  after  Lily  had  had  her  talk  with  Elinor,  Doyle 
found  a  way  to  widen  the  gulf  between  Lily  and  her  grand 
father.  Elinor  seldom  left  the  house,  and  Lily  had  done  some 
shopping  for  her.  The  two  women  were  in  Elinor's  bedroom, 
opening  small  parcels,  when  he  knocked  and  came  in. 

"I  don't  like  to  disturb  the  serenity  of  this  happy  family 
group/'  he  said,  "but  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  a  certain 
gentleman,  standing  not  far  from  a  certain  young  lady's  taxi- 
cab,  belongs  to  a  certain  department  of  our  great  city  govern 
ment.  And  from  his  unflattering  lack  of  interest  in  me,  that 
i » 

Elinor  half  rose,  terrified. 

"Not  the  police,  Jim  ?" 

"Sit  down/'  he  said,  in  a  tone  Lily  had  never  heard  him 
use  before.  And  to  Lily,  more  gently:  "I  am  not  altogether 
surprised.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  have  known  it  for  some  time. 
Your  esteemed  grandfather  seems  to  take  a  deep  interest  in 
your  movements  these  days." 

"Do  you  mean  that  I  am  being  followed?" 

"I'm  afraid  so.  You  see,  you  are  a  very  important  person, 
and  if  you  will  venture  in  the  slums  which  surround  the  Car- 
dew  Mills,  you  should  be  protected.  At  any  time,  for  in- 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 


stance,  Aunt  Elinor  and  I  may  despoil  you  of  those  pearls  you 
wear  so  casually,  and  -  " 

"Don't  talk  like  that,  Jim,"  Elinor  protested.  She  was  very 
pale,  "Are  you  sure  he  is  watching  Lily?" 

He  gave  her  an  ugly  look. 

"Who  else?"  he  inquired  suavely. 

Lily  sat  still,  frozen  with  anger.  So  this  was  her  grand 
father's  method  of  dealing  with  her.  He  could  not  lock  her 
up,  but  he  would  know,  day  by  day,  and  hour  by  hour,  what 
she  was  doing.  She  could  see  him  reading  carefully  his 
wicked  little  notes  on  her  day.  Perhaps  he  was  watching  her 
mail,  too.  Then  when  he  had  secured  a  hateful  total  he 
would  go  to  her  father,  and  together  they  would  send  her 
away  somewhere.  Away  from  Louis  Akers.  If  he  was 
watching  her  mail  too  he  would  know  that  Louis  was  in  love 
with  her.  They  would  rake  up  all  the  things  that  belonged 
in  the  past  he  was  done  with,  and  recite  them  to  her.  As 
though  they  mattered  now  ! 

She  went  to  the  window  and  looked  out.  Yes,  she  had  seen 
the  detective  before.  He  must  have  been  hanging  around  for 
days,  his  face  unconsciously  impressing  itself  upon  her.  When 
she  turned  : 

"Louis  is  coming  to  dinner,  isn't  he?" 

"Yes." 

"If  you  don't  mind,  Aunt  Nellie,  I  think  I'll  dine  out  with 
him  somewhere.  I  want  to  talk  to  him  alone." 

"But  the  detective  -  " 

"If  my  grandfather  uses  low  and  detestable  means  to  spy 
on  me,  Aunt  Nellie,  he  deserves  what  he  gets,  doesn't  he?" 

When  Louis  Akers  came  at  half-past  six,  he  found  that  she 
had  been  crying,  but  she  greeted  him  calmly  enough,  with  her 
head  held  high.  Elinor,  watching  her,  thought  she  was  very 
like  old  Anthony  himself  just  then. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

WILLY  CAMERON  came  home  from  a  night  class  in 
metallurgy  the  evening  after  the  day  Lily  had  made  her 
declaration  of  independence,  and  let  himself  in  with  his  night 
key.     There  was  a  light  in  the  little  parlor,  and  Mrs.  Boyd's 
fragile  silhouette  against  the  window  shade. 

He  was  not  surprised  at  that.  She  had  developed  a  mater 
nal  affection  for  him  stronger  than  any  she  showed  for  either 
Edith  or  Dan.  She  revealed  it  in  rather  touching  ways,  too, 
keeping  accounts  when  he  accused  her  of  gross  extravagance, 
for  she  spent  Dan's  swollen  wages  wastef ully ;  making  him  cof 
fee  late  at  night,  and  forcing  him  to  drink  it,  although  it  kept 
him  awake  for  hours;  and  never  going  to  bed  until  he  was 
safely  closeted  in  his  room  at  the  top  of  the  stairs. 

He  came  in  as  early  as  possible,  therefore,  for  he  had  had 
Doctor  Smalley  in  to  see  her,  and  the  result  had  been  unsatis 
factory. 

"Heart's  bad,"  said  the  doctor,  when  they  had  retired  to 
Willy's  room.  "Leaks  like  a  sieve.  And  there  may  be  an 
aneurism.  Looks  like  it,  anyhow." 

"What  is  there  to  do?"  Willy  asked,  feeling  helpless  and 
extremely  shocked.  "We  might  send  her  somewhere." 

"Nothing  to  do.  Don't  send  her  away;  she'd  die  of  loneli 
ness.  Keep  her  quiet  and  keep  her  happy.  Don't  let  her  worry. 
She  only  has  a  short  time,  I  should  say,  and  you  can't  lengthen 
it.  It  could  be  shortened,  of  course,  if  she  had  a  shock,  or  any 
thing  like  that." 

"Shall  I  tell  the  family?" 

"What's  the  use?"  asked  Doctor  Smalley,  philosophically. 
"If  they  fuss  over  her  she'll  suspect  something." 

As  he  went  down  the  stairs  he  looked  about  him.  The  hall 
was  fresh  with  new  paper  and  white  paint,  and  in  the  yard  at 
the  rear,  visible  through  an  open  door,  the  border  of  annuals 
was  putting  out  its  first  blossoms, 

17; 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

"Nice  little  place  you've  got  here,"  he  observed.  "I  think 
I  see  the  fine  hand  of  Miss  Edith,  eh?" 

"Yes,"  said  Willy  Cameron,  gravely. 

He  had  made  renewed  efforts  to  get  a  servant  after  that, 
but  the  invalid  herself  balked  him.  When  he  found  an  appli 
cant  Mrs.  Boyd  would  sit,  very  much  the  grande  dame,  and 
question  her,  although  she  always  ended  by  sending  her 
away. 

"She  looked  like  the  sort  that  would  be  running  out  at 
nights,"  she  would  say.  Or:  "She  wouldn't  take  telling,  and 
I  know  the  way  you  like  your  things,  Willy.  I  could  see  by 
looking  at  her  that  she  couldn't  cook  at  all." 

She  cherished  the  delusion  that  he  was  improving  and  gain 
ing  flesh  under  her  ministrations,  and  there  was  a  sort  of 
jealousy  in  her  care  for  him.  She  wanted  to  yield  to  no  one 
the  right  to  sit  proudly  behind  one  of  her  heavy,  tasteless  pies, 
and  say: 

"Now  I  made  this  for  you,  Willy,  because  I  know  country 
boys  like  pies.  Just  see  if  that  crust  isn't  nice," 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  you  made  it !" 

"I  certainly  did."  And  to  please  her  he  would  clear  his  plate. 
He  rather  ran  to  digestive  tablets  those  days,  and  Edith,  sur 
prising  him  with  one  at  the  kitchen  sink  one  evening,  accused 
him  roundly  of  hypocrisy. 

"I  don't  know  why  you  stay  anyhow,"  she  said,  staring  into 
the  yard  where  Jinx  was  burying  a  bone  in  the  heliotrope  bed. 
"The  food's  awful.  I'm  used  to  it,  but  you're  not." 

"You  don't  eat  anything,  Edith." 

"I'm  not  hungry.    Willy,  I  wish  you'd  go  away.    What  right 

"ve  you  got  to  tie  up  with  us,  anyhow?  We're  a  poor  lot. 
You're  not  comfortable  and  you  know  it.  D'you  know  where 
she  is  now?" 

"She"  in  the  vernacular  of  the  house,  was  always  Mrs. 
Boyd. 

"She  forgot  to  make  your  bed,  and  she's  doing  it  now." 

He  ran  up  the  stairs,  and  forcibly  putting  Mrs.  Boyd  in  a 
chair,  ma&e  up  his  own  bed,  awkwardly  and  with  an  eye  om 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 173 

her  chest,  Tiyhich  rose  and  fell  alarmingly.  It  was  after  that 
that  he  warned  Edith. 

"She's  not  strong,"  he  said.  "She  needs  care  and — well,  to 
be  happy.  That's  up  to  the  three  of  us.  For  one  thing,  she 
must  not  have  a  shock.  I'm  going  to  warn  Dan  against  ex 
ploding  paper  bags ;  she  goes  white  every  time." 

Dan  was  at  a  meeting,  and  Willy  dried  the  supper  dishes 
for  Edith.  She  was  silent  and  morose.  Finally  she  said : 

"She's  not  very  strong  for  me,  Willy.  You  needn't  look  so 
shocked.  She  loves  Dan  and  you,  but  not  me.  I  don't  mind, 
you  know.  She  doesn't  know  it,  but  I  do." 

"She  is  very  proud  of  you." 

"That's  different.  You're  right,  though.  Pride's  her  middle 
name.  It  nearly  killed  her  at  first  to  take  a  roomer,  because 
she  is  always  thinking  of  what  the  neighbors  will  say.  That's 
why  she  hates  me  sometimes." 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  talk  that  way." 

"But  it's  true.  That  fool  Hodge  woman  at  the  corner  came 
here  one  day  last  winter  and  filled  her  up  with  a  lot  of  talk 
about  me,  and  she's  been  queer  to  me  ever  since." 

"You  are  a  very  good  daughter." 

She  eyed  him  furtively  If  only  he  wouldn't  always  be 
lieve  in  her !  It  was  almost  worse  than  to  have  him  know  the 
truth.  But  he  went  along  with  his  head  in  the  clouds;  all 
women  were  good  and  all  men  meant  well.  Sometimes  it 
worked  out ;  Dan,  for  instance.  Dan  was  trying  to  live  up  to 
him.  But  it  was  too  late  for  her.  Forever  too  late. 

It  was  Willy  Cameron's  night  off,  and  they  went,  the  three 
of  them,  to  the  movies  that  evening.  To  Mrs.  Boyd  the  movies 
was  the  acme  of  dissipation.  She  would,  if  warned  in  advance, 
spend  the  entire  day  with  her  hair  in  curlers,  and  once  there 
she  feasted  her  starved  romantic  soul  to  repletion.  But  that 
night  the  building  was  stifling,  and  without  any  warning  Edith 
suddenly  got  up  and  walked  toward  the  door.  There  was 
something  odd  about  her  walk  and  Willy  followed  her,  but 
she  turned  on  him  almost  fiercely  outside. 


174 -  A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

"I  wish  you'd  let  me  alone,"  she  said,  and  then  swayed  a 
little.  But  she  did  not  faint. 

"I'm  going  home,"  she  said.  "You  stay  with  her.  And  for 
heaven's  sake  don't  stare  at  me  like  that.  I'm  all  right." 

Nevertheless  he  had  taken  her  home,  Edith  obstinately  silent 
and  sullen,  and  Willy  anxious  and  perplexed.  At  the  door 
she  said : 

"Now  go  back  to  her,  and  tell  her  I  just  got  sick  of  the 
picture.  It  was  the  smells  in  that  rotten  place.  They'd  turn 
a  pig's  stomach." 

"I  wish  you'd  see  a  doctor." 

She  looked  at  him  with  suspicious  eyes.  "I£  you  run  Smalley 
in  on  me  I'll  leave  home." 

"Will  you  go  to  bed?" 

"I'll  go  to  bed,  all  right." 

He  had  found  things  rather  more  difficult  after  that.  Two 
women,  both  ill  arid  refusing  to  acknowledge  it,  and  the  pros 
pect  of  Dan's  being  called  out  by  the  union.  Try  as  he  would, 
he  could  not  introduce  any  habit  of  thrift  into  the  family. 
Dan's  money  came  and  went,  and  on  Saturday  nights  there 
was  net  only  nothing  left,  but  often  a  deficit.  Dan,  skillfully 
worked  upon  outside,  began  to  develop  a  grievance,  also,  and 
on  his  rare  evenings  at  home  or  at  the  table  he  would  voice 
his  wrongs. 

"It's  just  hand  to  mouth  all  the  time,"  he  would  grumble. 
"A  fellow  working  for  the  Cardews  never  gets  ahead.  What 
chance  has  he  got,  anyhow  ?  It  takes  all  he  can  get  to  live." 

Willy  Cameron  began  to  see  that  the  trouble  was  not  with 
Dan,  but  with  his  women  folks.  And  Dan  was  one  of  thou 
sands.  His  wages  went  for  food,  too  much  food,  food  spoiled 
in  cooking.  There  were  men,  with  able  women  behind  them, 
making  less  than  Dan  and  saving  money. 

"Keep  some  of  it  out  and  bank  it,"  he  suggested,  but  Dan 
sneered. 

"And  have  a  store  bill  a  mile  long!  You  know  mother  as 
well  as  I  do.  She  means  well,  but  she's  a  fool  with  money." 

He  counted  his  hours  from  the  time  he  entered  the  mill 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 175 

until  he  left  it,  but  he  revealed  once  that  there  were  long  idle 
periods  when  the  heating  was  going  on,  when  he  and  the  other 
men  of  the  furnace  crew  sat  and  waited,  doing  nothing. 

"But  I'm  there,  all  right,"  he  said.  "I'm  not  playing  golf 
or  riding  in  my  automobile.  I'm  on  the  job." 

"Well,"  said  Willy  Cameron,  "I'm  on  the  job  about  eleven 
hours  a  day,  and  I  wear  out  more  shoe  leather  than  trouser 
seats  at  that.  But  it  doesn't  seem  to  hurt  me." 

"It's  a  question  of  principle,"  said  Dan  doggedly.  "I've  got 
no  personal  kick,  y'understand.  Only  I'm  not  getting  any 
where,  and  something's  got  to  be  done  about  it." 

So,  on  the  evening  of  the  day  after  Lily  had  made  her 
declaration  of  independence,  Willy  Cameron  made  his  way 
rather  heavily  toward  the  Boyd  house.  He  was  very  tired. 
He  had  made  one  or  two  speeches  for  Hendricks  already, 
before  local  ward  organizations,  and  he  was  working  hard  at 
his  night  class  in  metallurgy.  He  had  had  a  letter  from  his 
mother,  too,  and  he  thought  he  read  homesickness  between  the 
lines.  He  was  not  at  all  sure  where  his  duty  lay,  yet  to  quit 
now,  to  leave  Mr.  Hendricks  and  the  Boyds  flat,  seemed  im 
possible. 

He  had  tried  to  see  Lily,  too,  and  failed.  She  had  been  very 
gentle  over  the  telephone,  but,  attuned  as  he  was  to  every  in 
flection  of  her  voice,  he  had  thought  there  was  unhappiness  in 
it.  Almost  despair.  But  she  had  pleaded  a  week  of  en 
gagements. 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  had  said.  "I'll  call  you  up  next  week  some 
time.  I  have  a  lot  of  things  I  want  to  talk  over  with  you." 

But  he  knew  she  was  avoiding  him. 

And  he  knew  that  he  ought  to  see  her.  Through  Mr.  Hen 
dricks  he  had  learned  something  more  about  Jim  Doyle,  the 
real  Doyle  and  not  the  poseur,  and  he  felt  she  should  know  the 
nature  of  the  accusations  against  him.  Lily  mixed  up  with  a 
band  of  traitors,  Lily  of  the  white  flame  of  patriotism,  was 
unthinkable.  She  must  not  go  to  the  house  on  Cardew  Way. 
A  man's  loyalty  was  like  a  woman's  virtue ;  it  could  not  be 
questionable.  There  was  no  middle  ground. 


176 A  POOR  WISE  MAN     

He  heard  voices  as  he  entered  the  house,  and  to  his  amaze 
ment  found  Ellen  in  the  parlor.  She  was  sitting-  very  stiff  on 
the  edge  of  her  chair,  her  hat  slightly  crooked  and  a  suit-case 
and  brown  paper  bundle  at  her  feet. 

Mrs.  Boyd  was  busily  entertaining  her. 

"I  make  it  a  point  to  hold  my  head  high,"  she  was  saying. 

"I  guess  there  was  a  lot  of  talk  when  I  took  a  boarder,  but • 

Is  that  you,  Willy?" 

"Why,  Miss  Ellen!"  he  said.  "And  looking  as  though 
headed  for  a  journey !" 

Ellen's  face  did  not  relax.  She  had  been  sitting  there  for 
an  hour,  letting  Mrs.  Boyd's  prattle  pour  over  her  like  a  rain, 
and  thinking  meanwhile  her  own  bitter  thoughts. 

"I  am,  Willy.  Only  I  didn't  wait  for  my  money  and  the 
bank's  closed,  and  I  came  to  borrow  ten  dollars,  if  you  have 
it." 

That  told  him  she  was  in  trouble,  but  Mrs.  Boyd,  amiably 
hospitable  and  reveling  in  a  fresh  audience,  showed  no  sign 
of  departing. 

"She  says  she's  been  living  at  the  Cardews,"  she  put  in, 
rocking  valiantly.  "I  guess  most  any  place  would  seem  tame 
after  that.  I  do  hear,  Miss  Hart,  that  Mrs.  Howard  Cardew 
only  wears  her  clothes  once  and  then  gives  them  away." 

She  hitched  the  chair  away  from  the  fireplace,  where  it 
showed  every  indication  of  going  up  the  chimney. 

"I  call  that  downright  wasteful,"  she  offered. 

Willy  glanced  at  his  watch,  which  had  been  his  father's, 
and  bore  the  inscription :  "James  Duncan  Cameron,  1876"  in 
side  the  case. 

"Eleven  o'clock,"  he  said  sternly.  "And  me  promising  the 
doctor  I'd  have  you  in  bed  at  ten  sharp  every  night!  Now 
off  with  you." 

"But,  Willy " 

" — or  I  shall  have  to  carry  you,"  he  threatened.  It  was  an 
old  joke  between  them,  and  she  rose,  smiling,  her  thin  face 
illuminated  with  the  sense  of  being  looked  after. 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 177 

"He's  that  domineering,"  she  said  to  Ellen,  "that  I  can't 
call  my  soul  my  own." 

"Good-night,"  Ellen  said  briefly. 

Willy  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  and  watched  her  going 
up.  He  knew  she  liked  him  to  do  that,  that  she  would  expect 
to  find  him  there  when  she  reached  the  top  and  looked  down, 
panting  slightly. 

"Good-night,"  he  called.  "Both  windows  open.  I  shall  go 
outside  to  see !" 

Then  he  went  back  to  Ellen,  still  standing  primly  over  her 
Lares  and  Penates. 

"Now  tell  me  about  it,"  he  said. 

"I've  left  them.  There  has  been  a  terrible  fuss,  and  when 
Miss  Lily  left  to-night,  I  did  too." 

"She  left  her  home  ?" 

She  nodded, 

"It's  awful,  Willy.  I  don't  know  all  of  it,  but  they've  been 
having  her  followed,  or  her  grandfather  did.  I  think  there's 
a  man  in  it.  Followed!  And  her  a  good  girl!  Her  grand 
father's  been  treating  her  like  a  dog  for  weeks.  We  all  noticed 
it.  And  to-night  there  was  a  quarrel,  with  all  of  them  at  her 
like  a  pack  of  dogs,  and  her  governess  crying  in  the  hall.  I 
just  went  up  and  packed  my  things." 

"Where  did  she  go?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  got  her  a  taxicab,  and  she  only  took  one 
bag.  I  went  right  off  to  the  housekeeper  and  told  her  I 
wouldn't  stay,  and  they  could  send  my  money  after  me." 

"Did  you  notice  the  number  of  the  taxicab?" 

"I  never  thought  of  it." 

He  saw  it  all  with  terrible  distinctness.  The  man  was 
Akers,  of  course.  Then,  if  she  had  left  her  home  rather  than 
give  him  up,  she  was  really  in  love  with  him.  He  had  too 
much  common  sense  to  believe  for  a  moment  that  she  had 
fled  to  Louis  Akers'  protection,  however.  That  was  the  last 
thing  she  would  do.  She  would  have  gone  to  a  hotel,  or  to 
the  Doyle  house. 

"She  shouldn't  have  left  home,  Ellen." 


178 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

'They  drove  her  out,  I  tell  you,"  Ellen  cried,  irritably.  "At 
least  that's  what  it  amounted  to.  There  are  things  no  high- 
minded  girl  will  stand.  Can  you  lend  me  some  money,  Willy  ?" 

He  felt  in  his  pocket,  producing  a  handful  of  loose  money. 

"Of  course  you  can  have  all  I've  got,"  he  said.  "But  you 
must  not  go  to-night,  Miss  Ellen.  It's  too  late.  I'll  give  you 
my  room  and  go  in  with  Dan  Boyd." 

And  he  prevailed  over  her  protests,  in  the  end.  It  was  not 
until  he  saw  her  settled  there,  hiding  her  sense  of  strangeness 
under  an  impassive  mask,  that  he  went  downstairs  again  and 
took  his  hat  from  its  hook. 

Lily  must  go  back  home,  he  knew.  It  was  unthinkable  that 
she  should  break  with  her  family,  and  go  to  the  Doyles.  He 
had  too  little  self-consciousness  to  question  the  propriety  of  his 
own  interference,  too  much  love  for  her  to  care  whether  she 
resented  that  interference.  Arid  he  was  filled  with  a  vast 
anger  at  Jim  Doyle.  He  saw  in  all  this,  somehow,  Doyle's 
work ;  how  it  would  play  into  Doyle's  plans  to  have  Anthony 
Cardew's  granddaughter  a  member  of  his  household.  He 
would  take  her  away  from  there  if  he  had  to  carry  her. 

He  was  a  long  time  in  getting  to  the  mill  district,  and  a 
longer  time  still  in  rinding  Cardew  Way.  At  an  all-night 
pharmacy  he  learned  which  was  the  house,  and  his  determined 
movements  took  on  a  sort  of  uncertainty.  It  was  very  late. 
Ellen  had  waited  for  him  for  some  time.  If  Lily  were  in  that 
sinister  darkened  house  across  the  street,  the  family  had  prob 
ably  retired.  And  for  the  first  time,  too,  he  began  to  doubt  if 
Doyle  would  let  him  see  her.  Lily  herself  might  even  refuse 
to  see  him. 

Nevertheless,  the  urgency  to  get  her  away  from  there,  if 
she  were  there,  prevailed  at  last,  and  a  strip  of  light  in  an 
upper  window,  as  from  an  imperfectly  fitting  blind,  assured 
him  that  some  one  was  still  awake  in  the  house. 

He  went  across  the  street  and  opening  the  gate,  strode  up 
the  walk.  Almost  immediately  he  was  confronted  by  the  figure 
of  a  man  who  had  been  concealed  by  the  trunk  of  one  of  the 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 179 

trees.  He  lounged  forward,  huge,  menacing,  yet  not  entirely 
hostile. 

"Who  is  it?"  demanded  the  figure  blocking  his  way. 

"I  want  to  see  Mr.  Doyle." 

"What  about?" 

'Til  tell  him  that,"  said  Willy  Cameron. 

"What's  your  name?" 

"That's  my  business,  too,"  said  Mr.  Cameron,  with  disarm 
ing  pleasantness. 

"Damn  private  about  your  business,  aren't  you?"  jeered  the 
sentry,  still  in  cautious  tones.  "Well,  you  can  write  it  down 
on  a  piece  of  paper  and  mail  it  to  him.  He's  busy  now." 

"All  I  want  to  do,"  persisted  Mr.  William  Wallace  Cam 
eron,  growing  slightly  giddy  with  repressed  fury,  "is  to  ring 
that  doorbell  and  ask  him  a  question.  I'm  going  to  do  it,  too." 

There  was  rather  an  interesting  moment  then,  because  the 
figure  lunged  at  Mr.  Cameron,  and  Mr.  Cameron,  stooping  low 
and  swiftly,  as  well  as  to  one  side,  and  at  the  same  instant  be 
coming  a  fighting  Scot,  which  means  a  cool-eyed  madman,  got 
in  one  or  two  rather  neat  effects  with  his  fists.  The  first  took 
the  shadow  just  below  his  breast-bone,  and  the  left  caught  him 
at  that  angle  of  the  jaw  where  a  small  cause  sometimes  pro 
duces  a  large  effect.  The  figure  sat  down  on  the  brick  walk 
and  grunted,  and  Mr.  Cameron,  judging  that  he  had  about  ten 
seconds'  leeway,  felt  in  the  dazed  person's  right  hand  pocket 
for  the  revolver  he  knew  would  be  there,  and  secured  it.  The 
sitting  figure  made  puffing,  feeble  attempts  to  prevent  him,  but 
there  was  no  real  struggle. 

Mr.  Cameron  himself  was  feeling  extremely  triumphant  and 
as  strong  as  a  lion.  He  was  rather  sorry  no  one  had  seen  the 
affair,  but  that  of  course  was  sub-conscious.  And  he  was 
more  cheerful  than  he  had  been  for  some  days.  He  had  been 
up  against  so  many  purely  intangible  obstacles  lately  that  it  was 
a  relief  to  find  one  he  could  use  his  fists  on. 

"Now  I'll  have  a  few  words  with  you,  my  desperate  friend," 
he  said.  "I've  got  your  gun,  and  I  am  hell  with  a  revolver, 
because  I've  never  fired  one,  and  there's  a  sort  of  homicidal 


i8o  A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

beginner's  luck  about  the  thing.  If  you  move  or  speak,  I'll 
shoot  it  into  you  first  and  when  it's  empty  I'll  choke  it  down 
your  throat  and  strangle  you  to  death." 

After  which  ferocious  speech  he  strolled  up  the  path,  re 
volver  in  hand,  and  rang  the  doorbell.  He  put  the  weapon  in 
his  pocket  then,  but  he  kept  his  hand  upon  it.  He  had  read 
somewhere  that  a  revolver  was  quite  useable  from  a  pocket. 
There  was  no  immediate  answer  to  the  bell,  and  he  turned  and 
surveyed  the  man  under  the  tree,  faintly  distinguishable  in 
the  blackness.  It  had  occurred  to  him  that  the  number  of 
guns  a  man  may  carry  is  only  limited  to  his  pockets,  which  are 
about  fifteen. 

There  were  heavy,  deliberate  footsteps  inside,  and  the  door 
was  flung  open.  No  glare  of  light  followed  it,  however. 
There  was  a  man  there,  alarmingly  tall,  who  seemed  to  stare 
at  him,  and  then  beyond  him  into  the  yard. 

"Well?" 

"Are  you  Mr.  Doyle?" 

"I  am." 

"My  name  is  Cameron,  Mr.  Doyle.  I  have  had  a  small  dif 
ference  with  your  watch-dog,  but  he  finally  let  me  by." 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't  understand.    I  have  no  dog." 

"The  sentry  you  keep  posted,  then."  Mr.  Cameron  disliked 
fencing. 

"Ah!"  said  Mr.  Doyle,  urbanely.  "You  have  happened  on 
one  of  my  good  friends,  I  see.  I  have  many  enemies,  Mr. 
Cameron — was  that  the  name?  And  my  friends  sometimes 
like  to  keep  an  eye  on  me.  It  is  rather  touching." 

He  was  smiling,  Mr.  Cameron  knew,  and  his  anger  rose 
afresh.  , 

"Very  touching,"  said  Mr.  Cameron,  "but  if  he  bothers  me 
going  out  you  may  be  short  one  friend.  Mr.  Doyle,  Miss  Lily 
Cardew  left  her  home  to-night.  I  want  to  know  if  she  is 
here." 

"Are  you  sent  by  her  family  ?" 

"I  have  asked  you  if  she  is  here." 

Jim  Doyle  apparently  deliberated. 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 181 

"My  niece  is  here,  although  just  why  you  should  interest 
yourself ' 

"May  I  see  her?" 

"I  regret  to  say  she  has  retired." 

"I  think  she  would  see  me." 

A  door  opened  into  the  hall,  throwing  a  shaft  of  light  on 
the  wall  across  and  letting  out  the  sounds  of  voices. 

"Shut  that  door,"  said  Doyle,  wheeling  sharply.  It  was 
closed  at  once.  "Now,"  he  said,  turning  to  his  visitor,  "I'll 
tell  you  this.  My  niece  is  here."  He  emphasized  the  "my." 
"She  has  come  to  me  for  refuge,  and  I  intend  to  give  it  to 
her.  You  won't  see  her  to-night,  and  if  you  come  from  her 
people  you  can  tell  them  she  came  here  of  her  own  free  will, 
and  that  if  she  stays  it  will  be  because  she  wants  to.  Joe !"  he 
called  into  the  darkness. 

"Yes,"  came  a  sullen  voice,  after  a  moment's  hesitation. 

"Show  this  gentleman  out." 

All  at  once  Willy  Cameron  was  staring  at  a  closed  door,  on 
the  inner  side  of  which  a  bolt  was  being  slipped.  He  felt 
absurd  and  futile,  and  not  at  all  like  a  lion.  With  the  re 
volver  in  his  hand,  he  went  down  the  steps. 

"Don't  bother  about  the  gate,  Joe,"  he  said.  "I  like  to  open 
my  own  gates.  And — don't  try  any  tricks,  Joe.  Get  back  to 
your  kennel." 

Fearful  mutterings  followed  that,  but  the  shadow  retired, 
and  he  made  an  undisturbed  exit  to  the  street.  Once  on  the 
street-car,  the  entire  episode  became  unreal  and  theatrical,  with 
only  the  drag  of  Joe's  revolver  in  his  coat  pocket  to  prove  its 
reality. 

It  was  after  midnight  when,  shoes  in  hand,  he  crept  up  the 
stairs  to  Dan's  room,  and  careful  not  to  disturb  him,  slipped 
into  his  side  of  the  double  bed.  He  did  not  sleep  at  all.  He 
lay  there,  facing  the  fact  that  Lily  had  delivered  herself 
voluntarily  into  the  hands  of  the  enemy  of  her  house,  and  not 
only  of  her  house,  an  enemy  of  the  country.  That  conference 
that  night  was  a  sinister  one.  Brought  to  book  about  it,  Doyle 
might  claim  it  as  a  labor  meeting.  Organizers  planning  a  strike 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 


might  —  did  indeed  —  hold  secret  conferences,  but  they  did  not 
post  armed  guards.  They  opened  business  offices,  and  brought 
in  the  press  men,  and  shouted  their  grievances  for  the  world 
to  hear. 

This  was  different.  This  was  anarchy.  And  in  every  city 
it  was  going  on,  this  rallying  of  the  malcontents,  the  idlers, 
the  envious  and  the  dangerous,  to  the  red  flag.  Organized 
labor  gathered  together  the  workmen,  but  men  like  Doyle  were 
organizing  the  riff-raff  of  the  country.  They  secured  a  small 
percentage  of  idealists  and  pseudo-intellectuals,  and  taught 
them  a  so-called  internationalism  which  under  the  name  of 
brotherhood  was  nothing  but  a  raid  on  private  property,  a 
scheme  of  pillarre  and  arson.  They  allied  with  themselves  im 
ported  laborers  from  Europe,  men  with  everything  to  gain  and 
nothing  to  lose,  and  by  magnifying  real  grievances  and  in 
flaming  them  with  imaginary  ones,  were  building  out  of  this 
material  the  rank  and  file  of  an  anarchist  army. 

And  against  it,  what? 

On  toward  morning  he  remembered  something,  and  sat  bolt 
upright  in  bed.  Edith  had  once  said  something  about  knowing 
of  a  secret  telephone.  She  had  known  Louis  Akers  very  well. 
He  might  have  told  her  what  she  knew,  or  have  shown  her,  in 
some  braggart  moment.  A  certain  type  of  man  was  unable 
to  keep  a  secret  from  a  woman.  But  that  would  imply  — 

For  the  first  time  he  wondered  what  Edith's  relations  with 
Louis  Akers  might  have  been. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  surface  peace  of  the  house  on  Cardew  Way,  the  even 
tenor  of  her  days  there,  the  feeling  she  had  of  sanctuary, 
did  not  offset  Lily's  clear  knowledge  that  she  had  done  a  cruel 
and  an  impulsive  thing.  Even  her  grandfather,  whose  anger 
had  driven  her  away,  she  remembered  now  as  a  feeble  old 
man,  fighting  his  losing  battle  in  a  changing  world,  and  yet 
with  a  sort  of  mistaken  heroism  hoisting  his  colors  to  the  end. 

She  had  determined,  that  first  night  in  Elinor's  immaculate 
guest  room,  to  go  back  the  next  day.  They  had  been  right  at 
home,  by  all  the  tenets  to  which  they  adhered  so  religiously. 
She  had  broken  the  unwritten  law  not  to  break  bread  with  an 
enemy  of  her  house.  She  had  done  what  they  had  expressly 
forbidden,  done  it  over  and  over. 

"On  top  of  all  this,"  old  Anthony  had  said,  after  reading 
the  tale  of  her  delinquencies  from  some  notes  in  his  hand,  "you 
dined  last  night  openly  at  the  Saint  Elmo  Hotel  with  'this  same 
Louis  Akers,  a  man  openly  my  enemy,  and  openly  of  impure 
life." 

"I  do  not  believe  he  is  your  enemy." 

"He  is  one  of  the  band  of  anarchists  who  have  repeatedly 
threatened  to  kill  me." 

"Oh,  Lily,  Lily !"  said  her  mother. 

But  it  was  to  her  father,  standing  grave  and  still,  that  Lily 
replied. 

"I  don't  believe  that,  father.  He  is  not  a  murderer.  If  you 
would  let  him  come  here " 

"Never  in  this  house,"  said  old  Anthony,  savagely  crushing 
the  notes  in  his  hand.  "He  will  come  here  over  my  dead 
body." 

"You  have  no  right  to  condemn  a  man  unheard." 

"Unheard!  I  tell  you  I  know  all  about  him.  The  man  is 
an  anarchist,  a  rake,  a — dog." 


1 84  A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

"Just  a  moment,  father,"  Howard  had  put  in,  quietly.  "Lily, 
do  you  care  for  this  man?  I  mean  by  that,  do  you  want  to 
marry  him?" 

"He  has  asked  me.  I  have  not  given  him  any  answer  yet.  I 
don't  want  to  marry  a  man  my  family  will  not  receive.  It 
wouldn't  be  fair  to  him." 

Which  speech  drove  old  Anthony  into  a  frenzy,  and  led  him 
to  a  bitterness  of  language  that  turned  Lily  cold  and  obstinate. 
She  heard  him  through,  with  her  father  vainly  trying  to  break 
in  and  save  the  situation ;  then  she  said,  coldly :  «* 

"I  am  sorry  you  feel  that  way  about  it,"  and  turned  and 
left  the  room. 

She  had  made  no  plan,  of  course.  She  hated  doing  theatri 
cal  things.  But  shut  in  her  bedroom  with  the  doors  locked, 
Anthony's  furious  words  came  back,  his  threats,  his  bitter 
sneers.  She  felt  strangely  alone,  too.  In  all  the  great  house 
she  had  no  one  to  support  her.  Mademoiselle,  her  father  and 
mother,  even  the  servants,  were  tacitly  aligned  with  the  opposi 
tion.  Except  Ellen.  She  had  felt  lately  that  Ellen,  in  her 
humble  way,  had  espoused  her  cause. 

She  had  sent  for  Ellen. 

In  spite  of  the  warmth  of  her  greeting,  Lily  had  felt  a  re 
serve  in  Aunt  Elinor's  welcome.  It  was  as  though  she  was 
determinedly  making  the  best  of  a  bad  situation. 

"I  had  to  do  it,  Aunt  Elinor,"  she  said,  when  they  had  gone 
upstairs.  There  was  a  labor  conference,  Doyle  had  explained, 
being  held  below. 

"I  know,"  said  Elinor.  "I  understand.  I'll  pin  back  the  cur 
tains  so  you  can  open  your  windows.  The  night  air  is  so 
smoky  here." 

"I  am  afraid  mother  will  grieve  terribly." 

"I  think  she  will,"  said  Elinor,  with  her  quiet  gravity.  "You 
are  all  she  has." 

"She  has  father.  She  cares  more  for  him  than  for  anything 
in  the  world." 

"Would  you  like  some  ice-water,  dear?" 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN  185 

Some  time  later  Lily  roused  from  the  light  sleep  of  emo 
tional  exhaustion.  She  had  thought  she  heard  Willy  Camer 
on's  voice.  But  that  was  absurd,  of  course,  and  she  lay  back 
to  toss  uneasily  for  hours.  Out  of  all  her  thinking  there 
emerged  at  last  her  real  self,  so  long  overlaid  with  her  infatua 
tion.  She  would  go  home  again,  and  make  what  amends  she 
could.  They  were  wrong  about  Louis  Akers,  but  they  were 
right,  too. 

Lying  there,  as  the  dawn  slowly  turned  her  windows  to  gray, 
she  saw  him  with  a  new  clarity.  She  had  a  swift  vision  of 
what  life  with  him  would  mean.  Intervals  of  passionate  lov 
ing,  of  boyish  dependence  on  her,  and  then — a  new  face. 
Never  again  was  she  to  see  him  with  such  clearness.  He  was 
incapable  of  loyalty  to  a  woman,  even  though  he  loved  her. 
He  was  born  to  be  a  wanderer  in  love,  an  experimenter  in 
passion.  She  even  recognized  in  him  an  incurable  sensuous 
curiosity  about  women,  that  would  be  quite  remote  from  his 
love  for  her.  He  would  see  nothing  wrong  in  his  infidelities, 
so  long  as  she  did  not  know  and  did  not  suffer.  And  he  would 
come  back  to  her  from  them,  watchful  for  suspicion,  relieved 
when  he  did  not  find  it,  and  bringing  her  small  gifts  which 
would  be  actually  burnt  offerings  to  his  own  soul. 

She  made  up  her  mind  to  give  him  up.  She  would  go  home 
in  the  morning,  make  her  peace  with  them  all,  and  never  see 
Louis  Akers  again. 

She  slept  after  that,  and  at  ten  o'clock  Elinor  wakened  her 
with  the  word  that  her  father  was  downstairs.  Elinor  was 
very  pale.  It  had  been  a  shock  to  her  to  see  her  brother  in  her 
home  after  all  the  years,  and  a  still  greater  one  when  he  had 
put  his  arm  around  her  and  kissed  her. 

"I  am  so  sorry,  Howard,"  she  had  said.  The  sight  of  him 
had  set  her  lips  trembling.  He  patted  her  shoulder. 

"Poor  Elinor,"  he  said.  "Poor  old  girl !  We're  a  queer  lot, 
aren't  we?" 

"All  but  you." 

"An  obstinate,  do-and-be-damned  lot,"  he  said  slowly.    "I'd 


1 86 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

like  to  see  my  little  girl,  Nellie.  We  can't  have  another  break 
in  the  family." 

He  held  Lily  in  much  the  same  way  when  she  came  down, 
an  arm  around  her,  his  big  shoulders  thrown  back  as  though 
he  would  guard  her  against  the  world.  But  he  was  very  un 
easy  and  depressed,  at  that.  He  had  come  on  a  difficult  er 
rand,  and  because  he  had  no  finesse  he  blundered  badly.  It 
was  some  time  before  she  gathered  the  full  meaning  of  what 
he  was  saying. 

"Aunt  Cornelia's !"  she  exclaimed. 

"Or,  if  you  and  your  mother  want  to  go  to  Europe/'  he  put 
in  hastily,  seeing  her  puzzled  face,  "I  think  I  can  arrange  about 
passports." 

"Does  that  mean  he  won't  have  me  back,  father  ?" 

"Lily,  dear,"  he  said,  hoarse  with  anxiety,  "we  simply  have 
to  remember  that  he  is  a  very  old  man,  and  that  his  mind  is 
not  elastic.  He  is  feeling  very  bitter  now,  but  he  will  get 
over  it." 

"And  I  am  to  travel  around  waiting  to  be  forgiven !  I  was 
ready  to  go  back,  but — he  won't  have  me.  Is  that  it?" 

"Only  just  for  the  present."  He  threw  out  his  hands.  "I 
have  tried  everything.  I  suppose,  in  a  way,  I  could  insist,  make 
a  point  of  it,  but  there  are  other  things  to  be  considered.  His 
age,  for  one  thing,  and  then — the  strike.  If  he  takes  an  arbi 
trary  stand  against  me,  no  concession,  no  argument  with  the 
men,  it  makes  it  very  difficult,  in  many  ways." 

"I  see.  It  is  wicked  that  any  one  man  should  have  such 
power.  The  city,  the  mills,  his  family — it's  wicked."  But  she 
was  conscious  of  no  deep  anger  against  Anthony  now.  She 
merely  saw  that  between  them,  they,  she  and  her  grandfather, 
had  dug  a  gulf  that  could  not  be  passed.  And  in  Howard's 
efforts  she  saw  the  temporizing  that  her  impatient  youth  re 
sented. 

"I  am  afraid  it  is  a  final  break,  father,"  she  said.  "And  if 
he  shuts  me  out  I  must  live  my  own  life.  But  I  am  not  gofrig 
to  run  away  to  Aunt  Cornelia  or  Europe.  I  shall  stay  here." 

He  had  to  be  content  with  that.    After  all,  his  own  sister— 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN  187 

t  i 

but  he  wished  it  were  not  Jim  Doyle's  house.  Not  that  he  re 
garded  Lily's  shift  toward  what  he  termed  Bolshevism  very 
seriously ;  all  youth  had  a  slant  toward  socialism,  and  outgrew 
it.  But  he  went  away  sorely  troubled,  after  a  few  words  with 
Elinor  Doyle  alone. 

"You  don't  look  unhappy,  Nellie." 

"Things  have  been  much  better  the  last  few  years.'* 

"Is  he  kind  to  you?" 

"Not  always,  Howard.  He  doesn't  drink  now,  so  that  is 
over.  And  I  think  there  are  no  other  women.  But  when  things 
go  wrong  I  suffer,  of  course."  She  stared  past  him  toward 
the  open  window. 

"Why  don't  you  leave  him?" 

"I  couldn't  go  home,  Howard.  You  know  what  it  would 
be.  Worse  than  Lily.  And  I'm  too  old  to  start  out  by  my 
self.  My  habits  are  formed,  and  besides,  I — — "  She  checked 
herself. 

"I  could  take  a  house  somewhere  for  both  of  you,  Lily  and 
yourself,"  he  said  eagerly;  "that  would  be  a  wonderful  way 
out  for  everybody." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"We'll  manage  all  right,"  she  said.  "I'll  make  Lily  com 
fortable  and  as  happy  as  I  can." 

He  felt  that  he  had  to  make  his  own  case  clear,  or  he  might 
have  noticed  with  what  care  she  was  choosing  her  words. 
His  father's  age,  his  unconscious  dependence  on  Grace,  his 
certainty  to  retire  soon  from  the  arbitrary  stand  he  had  taken. 
Elinor  hardly  heard  him.  Months  afterwards  he  was  to  re 
member  the  distant  look  in  her  eyes,  a  sort  of  half-frightened 
determination,  but  he  was  self-engrossed  just  then. 

"I  can't  persuade  you  ?"  he  finished. 

"No.    But  it  is  good  of  you  to  think  of  it." 

"You  know  what  the  actual  trouble  was  last  night  ?  It  was 
not  her  coming  here." 

"I  know,  Howard." 

"Don't  let  her  marry  him,  Nellie!  Better  than  any  one,  you 
ought  to  know  what  that  would  mean." 


i88 A  POOR  WISE  MAN         

"I  knew  too,  Howard,  but  I  did  it." 

In  the  end  he  went  away  not  greatly  comforted,  to  fight  his 
own  battles,  to  meet  committees  from  the  union,  and  having 
met  them,  to  find  himself  facing  the  fact  that,  driven  by  some 
strange  urge  he  could  not  understand,  the  leaders  wished  a 
strike.  There  were  times  when  he  wondered  what  would 
happen  if  he  should  suddenly  yield  every  point,  make  every 
concession.  They  would  only  make  further  demands,  he  felt. 
They  seemed  determined  to  put  him  out  of  business.  If  only 
he  could  have  dealt  with  the  men  directly,  instead  of  with  their 
paid  representatives,  he  felt  that  he  would  get  somewhere. 
But  always,  interposed  between  himself  and  his  workmen,  was 
this  barrier  of  their  own  erecting. 

It  was  like  representative  government.  It  did  not  always 
represent.  It,  too,  was  founded  on  representation  in  good 
faith ;  but  there  was  not  always  good  faith.  The  union  system 
was  wrong.  It  was  like  politics.  The  few  handled  the  many. 
The  union,  with  its  all-powerful  leaders,  was  only  another 
form  of  autocracy.  It  was  Prussian.  Yet  the  ideal  behind 
the  union  was  sound  enough. 

He  had  no  quarrel  with  the  union.  He  puzzled  it  out,  trav 
eling  unaccustomed  mental  paths.  The  country  was  founded 
on  liberty.  All  men  were  created  free  and  equal.  Free,  yes, 
but  equal  ?  Was  not  equality  a  long  way  ahead  along  a  thorny 
road?  Men  were  not  equal  in  the  effort  they  made,  nor  did 
equal  efforts  bring  equal  result.  •  If  there  was  class  antagonism 
behind  all  this  unrest,  would  there  not  always  be  those  who 
rose  by  dint  of  ceaseless  effort  ?  Equality  of  opportunity,  yes. 
Equality  of  effort  arid  result,  no. 

To  destroy  the  chance  of  gain  was  to  put  a  premium  on 
inertia;  to  kill  ambition;  to  reduce  the  high  without  raising 
the  low. 

At  noon  on  the  same  day  Willy  Cameron  went  back  to  the 
house  on  Cardew  Way,  to  find  Lily  composed  and  resigned,  in 
stead  of  the  militant  figure  he  had  expected.  He  asked  her  to 
go  home,  and  she  told  him  then  that  she  had  no  longer  a  home 
to  go  to. 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 189 

"I  meant  to  go,  Willy,"  she  finished.  "I  meant  to  go  this 
morning.  But  you  see  how  things  are." 

He  had  stood  for  a  long  time;  looking  at  nothing  very  hard. 

"I  see,"  he  said  finally.  "O*  course  your  grandfather  will 
be  sorry  in  a  day  or  two,  but  he  may  not  swallow  his  pride 
very  soon." 

That  rather  hurt  her. 

"What  about  my  pride?"  she  asked. 

"You  can  afford  to  be  magnanimous,  with  all  your  life 
before  you."  Then  he  faced  her.  "Besides,  Lily,  you're 
wrong.  Dead  wrong.  You've  hurt  three  people,  and  all 
you've  got  out  of  it  has  been  your  own  way." 

"There  is  such  a  thing  as  liberty." 

"I  don't  know  about  that.  And  a  good  many  crimes  have 
been  committed  in  its  name."  Even  in  his  unhappiness  he 
was  controversial.  "We  are  never  really  free,  so  long  as  we 

love  people,  and  they  love  us.  Well "  He  picked  up  his 

old  felt  hat  and  absently  turned  down  the  brim;  it  was  rain 
ing.  "I'll  have  to  get  back.  I've  overstayed  my  lunch  hour 
as  it  is." 

"You  haven't  had  any  luncheon?" 

"I  wasn't  hungry,"  he  had  said,  and  had  gone  away,  his  coat 
collar  turned  up  against  the  shower.  Lily  had  had  a  presenti 
ment  that  he  was  taking  himself  out  of  her  life,  that  he  had 
given  her  up  as  a  bad  job.  She  felt  depressed  and  lonely,  and 
not  quite  so  sure  of  herself  as  she  had  been ;  rather,  although 
she  did  not  put  it  that  way,  as  though  something  fine  had 
passed  her  way,  like  Pippa  singing,  and  had  then  gone  on. 

She  settled  down  as  well  as  she  could  to  her  new  life,  mak 
ing  no  plans,  however,  and  always  with  the  stricken  feeling 
that  she  had  gained  her  own  point  at  the  cost  of  much  suffer 
ing.  She  telephoned  to  her  mother  daily,  broken  little  con 
versations  with  long  pauses  while  Grace  steadied  her  voice. 
Once  her  mother  hung  up  the  receiver  hastily,  and  Lily  guessed 
that  her  grandfather  had  come  in.  She  felt  very  bitter  toward 
him. 

But  she  found  the  small  menage  interesting,  in  a  quiet  way; 


190  A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

to  make  her  own  bed  and  mend  her  stockings — Grace  had  sent 
her  a  trunkful  of  clothing;  and  on  the  elderly  maid's  after 
noon  out,  to  help  Elinor  with  the  supper.  She  seldom  went 
out,  but  Louis  Akers  came  daily,  and  on  the  sixth  day  of  her 
stay  she  promised  to  marry  him. 

She  had  not  meant  to  do  it,  but  it  was  difficult  to  refuse 
him.  She  had  let  him  think  she  would  do  it  ultimately,  for 
one  thing.  And,  however  clearly  she  might  analyze  him  in  his 
absences,  his  strange  attraction  reasserted  itself  when  he  was 
near.  But  her  acceptance  of  him  was  almost  stoical. 

"But  not  soon,  Louis,"  she  said,  holding  him  off.  "And — 
I  ought  to  tell  you — I  don't  think  we  will  be  happy  together." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because "  she  found  it  hard  to  put  into  words — "be^ 

cause  love  with  you  is  a  sort  of  selfish  thing,  I  think." 

"I'll  lie  down  now  and  let  you  tramp  on  me,"  he  said  exult 
antly,  and  held  out  his  arms.  But  even  as  she  moved  toward 
him  she  voiced  her  inner  perplexity. 

"I  never  seem  to  be  able  to  see  myself  married  to  you." 

"Then  the  sooner  the  better,  so  you  can." 

"You  won't  like  being  married,  you  know." 

"That's  all  you  know  about  it,  Lily.  I'm  mad  about  you. 
I'm  mad  for  you." 

There  was  a  new  air  of  maturity  about  Lily  those  days,  and 
sometimes  a  sort  of  aloofness  that  both  maddened  him  and  in 
creased  his  desire  to  possess  her.  She  went  into  his  arms,  but 
when  he  held  her  closest  she  sometimes  seemed  farthest  away. 

"I  want  you  now." 

"I  want  to  be  engaged  a  long  time,  Louis.  We  have  so 
much  to  learn  about  each  other." 

He  thought  that  rather  childish.  But  whatever  had  been  his 
motive  in  the  beginning,  he  was  desperately  in  love  with  her 
by  that  time,  and  because  of  that  he  frightened  her  sometimes. 
He  was  less  sure  of  himself,  too,  even  after  she  had  accepted 
him,  and  to  prove  his  continued  dominance  over  her  he  would 
bully  her. 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 191 

"Come  here,"  he  would  say,  from  the  hearth  rug,  or  by  the 
window. 

"Certainly  not." 

"Come  here." 

Sometimes  she  went,  to  be  smothered  in  his  hot  embrace; 
sometimes  she  did  not. 

But  her  infatuation  persisted,  although  there  were  times 
when  his  inordinate  vitality  and  his  caresses  gave  her  a  sense 
of  physical  weariness,  times  when  sheer  contact  revolted  her. 
He  seemed  always  to  want  to  touch  her.  Fastidiously  reared, 
taught  a  sort  of  aloofness  from  childhood,  Lily  found  herself 
wondering  if  all  men  in  love  were  like  that,  always  having  to 
be  held  off. 


CHAPTER  XX 

ELLEN  was  staying  at  the  Boyd  house.     She  went  down 
stairs  the  morning  after  her  arrival,  and  found  the  bread 
— bakery  bread — toasted  and  growing  cold  on  the  table,  while 
a  slice  of  ham,  ready  to  be  cooked,  was  not  yet  on  the  fire, 
and  Mrs.  Boyd  had  run  out  to  buy  some  milk. 

Dan  had  already  gone,  and  his  half-empty  cup  of  black 
coffee  was  on  the  kitchen  table.  Ellen  sniffed  it  and  raised 
her  eyebrows. 

She  rolled  up  her  sleeves,  put  the  toast  in  the  oven  and  the 
ham  in  the  frying  pan,  with  much  the  same  grimness  with 
which  she  had  sat  the  night  before  listening  to  Mrs.  Boyd's 
monologue.    If  this  was  the  way  they  looked  after  Willy  Cam 
eron,  no  wonder  he  was  thin  and  pale.     She  threw  out  the 
coffee,  which  she  suspected  had  been  made  by  the  time-saving 
method  of  pouring  water  on  last  night's  grounds,  and  made 
a  fresh  pot  of  it.     After  that  she  inspected  the  tea  towels,  ] 
and  getting  a  tin  dishpan,  set  them  to  boil  in  it  on  the  top  a 
of  the  range. 

"Enough  to  give  him  typhoid,"  she  reflected. 

Ellen  disapproved  of  her  surroundings;  she  disapproved 
of  any  woman  who  did  not  boil  her  tea  towels.  And  when 
Edith  came  down  carefully  dressed  and  undeniably  rouged 
she  formed  a  disapproving  opinion  of  that  young  lady,  which 
was  that  she  was  trying  to  land  Willy  Cameron,  and  that  he 
would  be  better  dead  than  landed. 

She  met  Edith's  stare  of  surprise  with  one  of  thinly  veiled 
hostility. 

"Hello!"  said  Edith.  "When  did  you  blow  in,  and  where 
from?" 

"I  catne  to  see  Mr.  Cameron  last  night,  and  he  made  me 
stay." 

192 

1 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 193 

'A  friend  of  Willy's!  Well,  I  guess  you  needn't  pay  for 
your  breakfast  by  cooking  it.  Mother's  probably  run  out  for 
something — she  never  has  anything  in  the  house — and  is  talk 
ing  somewhere.  I'll  take  that  fork." 

But  Ellen  proceeded  to  turn  the  ham. 

"I'll  do  it,"  she  said.    "You  might  spoil  your  hands." 

But  Edith  showed  no  offense. 

"All  right,"  she  acceded,  indifferently.  "If  you're  going  to 
eat  it  you'd  better  cook  it.  We're  rotten  housekeepers  here." 

*'l  should  think,  if  you're  going  to  keep  boarders,  some 
body  would  learn  to  cook.  Mr.  Cameron's  mother  is  the  best 
housekeeper  in  town,  and  he  was  raised  on  good  food  and 
plenty  of  it." 

Her  tone  was  truculent.  Ellen's  world,  the  world  of  short 
hours  and  easy  service,  of  the  decorum  of  the  Cardew  ser 
vants'  hall,  of  luxury  and  dignity  and  good  pay,  had  suddenly 
gone  to  pieces  about  her.  She  was  feeling  very  bitter,  espe 
cially  toward  a  certain  chauffeur  who  had  prophesied  the  end 
of  all  service.  He  had  made  the  statement  that  before  long 
all  people  would  be  equal.  There  would  be  no  above  and 
below-stairs,  no  servants'  hall. 

"They'll  drive  their  own  cars,  then,  damn  them,"  he  had 
said  once,  "if  they  can  get  any  to  drive.  And  answer  their 
own  bells,  if  they've  got  any  to  ring.  And  get  up  and  cook 
their  own  breakfasts." 

"Which  you  won't  have  any  to  cook,"  Grayson  had  said 
irritably,  from  the  head  of  the  long  table.  "Just  a  word,  my 
man.  That  sort  of  talk  is  forbidden  here.  One  word  more 
and  I  go  to  Mr.  Cardew." 

The  chauffeur  had  not  sulked,  however.  "All  right,  Mr. 
Grayson,"  he  said  affably.  "But  I  can  go  on  thinking,  I  dare 
say.  And  some  of  these  days  you'll  be  wishing  you'd  climbed 
on  the  band  wagon  before  it's  too  late." 

Ellen,  turning  the  ham  carefully,  was  conscious  that  her 
revolt  had  been  only  partially  on  Lily's  account.  It  was  not 
so  much  Lily's  plight  as  the  abuse  of  power,  although  she  did 
not  put  it  that  way,  that  had  driven  her  out.  Ellen  then  had 


194 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

carried  out  her  own  small  revolution,  and  where  had  it  put 
her  ?  She  had  lost  a  good  home,  and  what  could  she  do  ?  All 
she  knew  was  service. 

Edith  poured  herself  a  cup  of  coffee,  and  taking  a  piece  of 
toast  from  the  oven,  stood  nibbling  it.  The  crumbs  fell  on 
the  not  over-clean  floor. 

"Why  don't  you  go  into  the  dining-room  to  eat?"  Ellen 
demanded. 

"Got  out  of  the  wrong  side  of  the  bed,  didn't  you  ?"  Edith 
asked.  " Willy's  bed,  I  suppose.  I'm  not  hungry,  and  I  al 
ways  eat  breakfast  like  this.  I  wish  he  would  hurry.  We'll 
be  late." 

Ellen  stared.  It  was  her  first  knowledge  that  this  girl,  this 
painted  hussy,  worked  in  Willy's  pharmacy,  and  her  suspicions 
increased.  She  had  a  quick  vision,  as  she  had  once  had  of  Lily, 
of  Edith  in  the  Cameron  house;  Edith  reading  or  embroidering 
on  the  front  porch  while  Willy's  mother  slaved  for  her ;  Edith 
on  the  same  porch  in  the  evening,  with  all  the  boys  in  town 
around  her.  She  knew  the  type,  the  sort  that  set  an  entire 
village  by  the  ears  and  in  the  end  left  home  and  husband  and 
ran  away  with  a  traveling  salesman. 

Ellen  had  already  got  Willy  married  and  divorced  when  Mrs. 
Boyd  came  in.  She  carried  the  milk  pail,  but  her  lips  were  blue 
and  she  sat  down  in  a  chair  and  held  her  hand  to  her  heart. 

"I'm  that  short  of  breath  I"  she  gasped.  "I  declare  I  could 
hardly  get  back." 

"I'll  give  you  some  coffee,  right  off." 

When  Willy  Cameron  had  finished  his  breakfast  she  fol 
lowed  him  into  the  parlor.  His  pallor  was  not  lost  on  her,  <jr 
his  sunken  eyes.  He  looked  badly  fed,  shabby,  and  harassed, 
and  he  bore  the  marks  of  his  sleepless  night  on  his  face. 

"Are  you  going  to  stay  here  ?"  she  demanded. 

"Why,  yes,  Miss  Ellen." 

"Your  mother  would  break  her  heart  if  she  knew  the  way 
you're  living." 

"I'm  very  comfortable.  We've  tried  to  get  a  ser "  He 

changed  color  at  that.  In  the  simple  life  of  the  village  at  home 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 195 

a  woman  whose  only  training  was  the  town  standard  of  good 
housekeeping  might  go  into  service  in  the  city  and  not  lose 
caste.  But  she  was  never  thought  of  as  a  servant.  " — help," 
he  substituted.  "But  we  can't  get  any  one,  and  Mrs.  Boyd  is 
delicate.  It  is  heart  trouble." 

"Does  that  girl  work  where  you  do  ?" 

"Yes.    Why?" 

"Is  she  engaged  to  you?    She  calls  you  Willy." 

He  smiled  into  her  eyes. 

"Not  a  bit  of  it,  or  thinking  of  it." 

"How  do  you  know  what  she's  thinking?  It's  all  over  her. 
It's  Willy  this  and  Willy  that — and  men  are  such  fools." 

There  flashed  into  his  mind  certain  things  that  he  had  tried 
to  forget;  Edith  at  his  doorway,  with  that  odd  look  in  her 
eyes ;  Edith  never  going  to  sleep  until  he  had  gone  to  bed ; 
and  recently,  certain  things  she  had  said,  that  he  had  passed 
over  lightly  and  somewhat  uncomfortably. 

"That's  ridiculous,  Miss  Ellen.  But  even  if  it  were  true, 
which  it  isn't,  don't  you  think  it  would  be  rather  nice  of  her?" 
He  smiled. 

"I  do  not.  I  heard  you  going  out  last  night,  Willy.  Did  you 
find  her?" 

"She  is  at  the  Doyles'.    I  didn't  see  her." 

"That'll  finish  it,"  Ellen  prophesied,  somberly.  She  glanced 
around  the  parlor,  at  the  dust  on  the  furniture,  at  the  unwashed 
baseboard,  at  the  unwound  clock  on  the  mantel  shelf. 

"If  you're  going  to  stay  here  I  will,"  she  announced  abruptly. 
"I  owe  that  much  to  your  mother.  I've  got  some  money.  I'll 
take  what  they'd  pay  some  foreigner  who'd  throw  out  enough 
to  keep  another  family."  Then,  seeing  hesitation  in  his  eyes: 
"That  woman's  sick,  and  you've  got  to  be  looked  after.  I 
could  do  all  the  work,  if  that — if  the  girl  would  help  in  the 
evenings." 

He  demurred  at  first.  She  would  find  it  hard.  They  had  no 
luxuries,  and  she  was  accustomed  to  luxury.  There  was  no 
room  for  her.  But  in  the  end  he  called  Edith  and  Mrs.  Boyd, 


196 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

and  was  rather  touched  to  find  Edith  offering  to  share  her 
upper  bedroom. 

"It's  a  hole/'  she  said,  "cold  in  winter  and  hot  as  blazes  in 
summer.  But  there's  room  for  a  cot,  and  I  guess  we  can  let 
each  other  alone." 

"I  wish  you'd  let  me  move  up  there,  Edith,"  he  said  for  per 
haps  the  twentieth  time  since  he  had  found  out  where  she 
slept,  "and  you  would  take  my  room." 

"No  chance,"  she  said  cheerfully.  "Mother  would  raise  the 
devil  if  you  tried  it."  She  glanced  at  Ellen's  face.  "If  that 
word  shocks  you,  you're  due  for  a  few  shocks,  you  know." 

"The  way  you  talk  is  your  business,  not  mine,"  said  Ellen 
austerely. 

When  they  finally  departed  on  a  half-run  Ellen  was  estab 
lished  as  a  fixture  in  the  Boyd  house,  and  was  already  piling 
all  the  cooking  utensils  into  a  wash  boiler  and  with  grim  ef 
ficiency  was  searching  for  lye  with  which  to  clean  them. 

Two  weeks  later,  the  end  of  June,  the  strike  occurred.  It 
was  not,  in  spite  of  predictions,  a  general  walk-out.  Some  of 
the  mills,  particularly  the  smaller  plants,  did  not  go  down  at 
all,  and  with  reduced  forces  kept  on.  but  the  chain  of  Cardew 
Mills  was  closed.  There  was  occasional  rioting  by  the  foreign 
element  in  outlying  districts,  but  the  state  constabulary  handled 
it  easily. 

Dan  was  out  of  work,  and  the  loss  of  his  pay  was  a  serious 
matter  in  the  little  house.  He  had  managed  to  lay  by  a  hundred 
dollars,  and  Willy  Cameron  had  banked  it  for  him,  but  there 
was  a  real  problem  to  be  faced.  On  the  night  of  the  day  the 
Cardew  Mills  went  down  Willy  called  a  meeting  of  the  house 
hold  after  supper,  around  the  dining  room  table.  He  had  been 
in  to  see  Mr.  Hendricks,  who  had  been  laid  up  with  bronchitis, 
and  Mr.  Hendricks  had  predicted  a  long  strike. 

"The  irresistible  force  and  the  immovable  body,  son,"  he 
said.  "They'll  stay  set  this  time.  And  unless  I  miss  my  guess 
that  is  playing  Doyle's  hand  for  him,  all  right.  His  chance  will 
come  when  the  men  have  used  up  their  savings  and  are  grow 
ing  bitter.  Every  strike  plays  into  the  hands  of  the  enemy, 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 197 

son,  and  they  know  it.  The  moment  production  ceases  prices 
go  up,  and  soon  all  the  money  in  the  world  won't  pay  them 
wages  enough  to  live  on." 

He  had  a  store  of  homely  common  sense,  and  a  gift  of  put 
ting  things  into  few  words.  Willy  Cameron,  going  back  to  the 
little  house  that  evening,  remembered  the  last  thing  he  had  said. 

"The  only  way  to  solve  this  problem  of  living,"  he  said,  "is 
to  see  how  much  we  can  work,  and  not  how  little.  Germany's 
working  ten  hours  a  day,  and  producing.  We're  talking  about 
six,  and  loafing  and  fighting  while  we  talk." 

So  Willy  went  home  and  called  his  meeting,  and  knowing 
Mrs.  Boyd's  regard  for  figures,  set  down  and  added  or  sub 
tracted,  he  placed  a  pad  and  pencil  on  the  table  before  him.  It 
was  an  odd  group :  Dan  sullen,  resenting  the  strike  and  the 
causes  that  had  led  to  it;  Ellen,  austere  and  competent;  Mrs. 
Boyd  with  a  lace  fichu  pinned  around  her  neck,  now  that  she 
had  achieved  the  dignity  of  hired  help,  and  Edith.  Edith  si 
lent,  morose  and  fixing  now  and  then  rather  haggard  eyes  on 
Willy  Cameron's  unruly  hair.  She  seldom  met  his  eyes. 

"First  of  all,"  said  Willy,  "we'll  take  our  weekly  assets.  Of 
course  Dan  will  get  something  temporarily,  but  we'll  leave  that 
out  for  the  present." 

The  weekly  assets  turned  out  to  be  his  salary  and  Edith's. 

"Why,  Willy,"  said  Mrs.  Boyd,  "you  can't  turn  all  your 
money  over  io  us." 

"You  are  all  the  family  I  have  just  now.  Why  not?  Any 
how,  I'll  have  to  keep  out  lunch  money  and  carfare,  and  so 
will  Edith.  Now  as  to  expenses." 

Ellen  had  made  a  great  reduction  in  expenses,  but  food  was 
high.  And  there  was  gas  and  coal,  and  Dan's  small  insurance, 
and  the  rent.  There  was  absolutely  no  margin,  and  a  sort  of 
silence  fell. 

"WThat  about  your  tuition  at  night  school?"  Edith  asked 
suddenly. 

"Spring  term  ended  this  week." 

"But  you  said  there  was  a  summer  one." 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you  about  that,"  Willy  said,  feeling  for  words. 


198 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

"I'm  going  to  be  busy  helping  Mr.  Hendricks  in  his  campaign. 
Then  next  fall — well,  I'll  either  go  back  or  Hendricks  will 
make  me  chief  of  police,  or  something."  He  smiled  around  the 
table.  "I  ought  to  get  some  sort  of  graft  out  of  it." 

"Mother!"  Edith  protested.  "He  mustn't  sacrifice  himself 
for  us.  What  are  we  to  him  anyhow  ?  A  lot  of  stones  hung 
around  his  neck.  That's  all." 

It  was  after  Willy  had  declared  that  this  was  his  home  now, 
and  he  had  a  right  to  help  keep  it  going,  and  after  Ellen  had 
observed  that  she  had  some  money  laid  by  and  would  not  take 
any  wages  during  the  strike,  that  the  meeting  threatened  to 
become  emotional.  Mrs.  Boyd  shed  a  few  tears,  and  as  she 
never  by  any  chance  carried  a  handkerchief,  let  them  flow  over 
her  fichu.  And  Dan  shook  Willy's  hand  and  Ellen's,  and  said 
that  if  he'd  had  his  way  he'd  be  working,  and  not  sitting  round 
like  a  stiff  letting  other  people  work  for  him.  But  Edith  got  up 
and  went  out  into  the  little  back  garden,  and  did  not  come  back 
until  the  meeting  was  both  actually  and  morally  broken  up. 
When  she  heard  Dan  go  out,  and  Ellen  and  Mrs.  Boyd  go  up 
stairs,  chatting  in  a  new  amiability  brought  about  by  trouble 
and  sacrifice,  she  put  on  her  hat  and  left  the  house. 

Ellen,  rousing  on  her  cot  in  Edith's  upper  room,  heard  her 
come  in  some  time  later,  and  undress  and  get  into  bed.  Her 
old  suspicion  of  the  girl  revived,  and  she  sat  upright. 

"Where  I  come  from  girls  don't  stay  out  alone  until  all 
hours,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  let  me  alone." 

Ellen  fell  asleep,  and  in  her  sleep  she  dreamed  that  Mrs. 
Boyd  had  taken  sick  and  was  moaning.  The  moaning  was 
terrible ;  it  filled  the  little  house.  Ellen  wakened  suddenly.  It 
was  not  moaning;  it  was  strange,  heavy  breathing,  strangling; 
and  it  came  from  Edith's  bed. 

"Are  you  sick  ?"  she  called,  and  getting  up,  her  knees  hardly 
holding  her,  she  lighted  the  gas  at  its  unshaded  bracket  on  the 
wall  and  ran  to  the  other  bed. 

Edith  was  lying  there,  her  mouth  open,  her  lips  bleached  and 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 199 

twisted.  Her  stertorous  breathing  filled  the  room,  and  over 
all  was  the  odor  of  carbolic  acid. 

"Edith,  for  God's  sake !" 

The  girl  was  only  partially  conscious.  Ellen  ran  down  the 
stairs  and  into  Willy's  room. 

"Get  up,"  she  cried,  shaking  him.  "That  girl's  killed  her 
self." 

"LilyF 

"No,  Edith.     Carbolic  acid." 

Even  then  he  remembered  her  mother. 

"Don't  let  her  hear  anything.  It  will  kill  her,"  he  said, 
and  ran  up  the  stairs.  Almost  immediately  he  was  down  again, 
searching  for  alcohol;  he  found  a  small  quantity  and  poured 
that  down  the  swollen  throat.  He  roused  Dan  then,  and  sent 
him  running  madly  for  Doctor  Smalley,  with  a  warning  to 
bring  him  past  Mrs.  Boyd's  door  quietly,  and  to  bring  an  in 
tubation  set  with  him  in  case  her  throat  should  close.  Then, 
on  one  of  his  innumerable  journeys  up  and  down  the  stairs  he 
encountered  Mrs.  Boyd  herself,  in  her  nightgown,  and  terrified. 

"What's  the  matter,  Willy?"  she  asked.    "Is  it  a  fire?" 

"Edith  is  sick.  I  don't  want  you  to  go  up.  It  may  be  con 
tagious.  It's  her  throat." 

And  from  that  Mrs.  Boyd  deduced  diphtheria;  she  sat  on 
the  stairs  in  her  nightgown,  a  shaken  helpless  figure,  asking 
countless  questions  of  those  that  hurried  past.  But  they  re 
assured  her,  and  after  a  time  she  went  downstairs  and  made  a 
pot  of  coffee.  Ensconced  with  it  in  the  lower  hall,  and  milk 
bottle  in  hand,  she  waylaid  them  with  it  as  they  hurried  up  and 
down. 

Upstairs  the  battle  went  on.  There  were  times  when  the 
paralyzed  muscles  almost  stopped  lifting  the  chest  walls,  when 
each  breath  was  a  new  miracle.  Her  throat  was  closing  fast, 
too,  and  at  eight  o'clock  came  a  brisk  young  surgeon,  and  with 
Willy  Cameron's  assistance,  an  operation  was  performed.  After 
that,  and  for  days,  Edith  breathed  through  a  tube  in  her  neck. 

The  fiction  of  diphtheria  was  kept  up,  and  Mrs.  Boyd,  hav 
ing  a  childlike  faith  in  medical  men,  betrayed  no  anxiety  after 


200  A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

the  first  hour  or  two.  She  saw  nothing  incongruous  in  Ellen 
going  down  through  the  house  while  she  herself  was  kept  out 
of  that  upper  room  where  Edith  lay,  conscious  now  but  sullen, 
disfigured,  silent.  She  was  happy,  too,  to  have  her  old  domain 
hers  again,  while  Ellen  nursed;  to  make  again  her  flavorless 
desserts,  her  mounds  of  rubberlike  gelatine,  her  pies.  She 
brewed  broths  daily,  and  when  Edith  could  swallow  she  sent 
up  the  results  of  hours  of  cooking  which  Ellen  cooled,  skimmed 
the  crust  of  grease  from  the  top,  and  heated  again  over  the  gas 
flame. 

She  never  guessed  the  conspiracy  against  her. 

Between  Ellen  and  Edith  there  was  no  real  liking.  Ellen 
did  her  duty,  and  more ;  got  up  at  night ;  was  gentle  with  rather 
heavy  hands ;  bathed  the  girl  and  brushed  and  braided  her  long 
hair.  But  there  were  hours  during  that  simulated  quarantine 
when  a  brooding  silence  held  in  the  sick-room,  and  when  Ellen, 
turning  suddenly,  would  find  Edith's  eyes  on  her,  full  of  angry 
distrust.  At  those  times  Ellen  was  glad  that  Edith  could  not 
speak. 

For  at  the  end  of  a  few  days  Ellen  knew,  and  Edith  knew 
she  knew. 

Edith  could  not  speak.  She  wrote  her  wants  with  a  stub 
of  pencil,  or  made  signs.  One  day  she  motioned  toward  a 
mirror  and  Ellen  took  it  to  her. 

"You  needn't  be  frightened,"  she  said.  "When  those  scabs 
come  off  the  doctor  says  you'll  hardly  be  marked  at  all." 

But  Edith  only  glanced  at  herself,  and  threw  the  mirror 
aside. 

Another  time  she  wrote:     "Willy?" 

"He's  all  right.  They've  got  a  girl  at  the  store  to  take  your 
place,  but  I  guess  you  can  go  back  if  you  v/ant  to."  Then, 
seeing  the  hunger  in  the  girl's  eyes :  "He's  out  a  good  bit  these 
nights.  He's  making  speeches  for  that  Mr.  Hendricks.  As 
if  he  could  be  elected  against  Mr.  Cardew !" 

The  confinement  told  on  Ellen.  She  would  sit  for  nours, 
wondering  what  had  become  of  Lily.  Had  she  gone  back 
home?  Was  she  seeing  that  other  man?  Perhaps  her  valiant 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 201 

loyalty  to  Lily  faded  somewhat  during  those  days,  because  she 
began  to  guess  Willy  Cameron's  secret.  If  a  girl  had  no  eyes 
in  her  head,  and  couldn't  see  that  Willy  Cameron  was  the  fines* 
gentleman  who  ever  stepped  in  shoe  leather,  that  girl  had 
something  wrong  about  her. 

Then,  sometimes,  she  wondered  how  Edith's  condition  was 
going  to  be  kept  from  her  mother.  She  had  measured  Mrs, 
BoycFs  pride  by  that  time,  her  almost  terrible  respectability. 
She  rather  hoped  that  the  sick  woman  would  die  some  night, 
easily  and  painlessly  in  her  sleep,  because  death  was  easier 
than  some  things.  She  liked  Mrs.  Boyd;  she  felt  a  slightly 
contemptuous  but  real  affection  for  her. 

Then  one  night  Edith  heard  Willy's  voice  below,  and  indi 
cated  that  she  wanted  to  see  him.  He  came  in,  stooping  under 
the  sheet  which  Mrs.  Boyd  had  heard  belonged  in  the  door 
way  of  diphtheria,  and  stood  looking  down  at  her.  His  heart 
ached.  He  sat  down  on  the  bed  beside  her  and  stroked  her 
hand. 

"Poor  little  girl,"  he  said.  "We've  got  to  make  things  very 
happy  for  her,  to  make  up  for  all  this !" 

But  Edith  freed  her  hand,  and  reaching  out  for  paper  and 
pencil  stub,  wrote  something  and  gave  it  to  Ellen. 

Ellen  read  it. 

"Tell  him." 

"I  don't  want  to,  Edith.  You  wait  and  do  it  yourself." 

But  Edith  made  an  insistent  gesture,  and  Ellen,  flushed  and 
wretched,  had  to  tell.  He  made  no  sign,  but  sat  stroking 
Edith's  hand,  only  he  stared  rather  fixedly  at  the  wall,  con 
scious  that  the  girl's  eyes  were  watching  him  for  a  single  ges 
ture  of  surprise  or  anger.  He  felt  no  anger,  only  a  great  per 
plexity  and  sadness,  an  older-brother  grief. 

"I'm  sorry,  little  sister,"  he  said,  and  did  the  kindest  thing 
he  could  think  of,  bent  over  and  kissed  her  on  the  forehead. 
"Of  course  I  know  how  you  feel,  but  it  is  a  big  thing  to  bear 
a  child,  isn't  it  ?  It  is  the  only  miracle  we  have  these  days." 

"A  child  with  no  father,"  said  Ellen,  stonily. 

"Even  then,"  he  persisted,  "it's  a  big  thing.    We  would  have 


202 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

this  one  come  under  happier  circumstances  if  we  could,  but 
we  will  welcome  and  take  care  of  it,  anyhow.  A  child's  a  child, 
and  mighty  valuable.  And,"  he  added — "I  appreciate  your 
wanting  me  to  know,  Edith." 

He  stayed  a  little  while  after  that,  but  he  read  aloud,  choos 
ing  a  humorous  story  and  laughing  very  hard  at  all  the 
proper  places.  In  the  end  he  brought  a  faint  smi1.e  to  Edith's 
blistered  lips,  and  a  small  lift  to  the  cloud  that  hung  over  her 
now,  day  and  night. 

He  made  a  speech  that  night,  and  into  it  he  put  all  of  his 
aching,  anxious  soul;  Edith  and  Dan  and  Lily  were  behind  it. 
Akers  and  Doyle.  It  was  at  a  meeting  in  the  hall  over  the 
city  market,  and  the  audience  a  new  men's  non-partisan  asso 
ciation. 

"Sometimes,"  he  said,  "I  am  asked  what  it  is  that  we  want, 
we  men  who  are  standing  behind  Hendricks  as  an  independent 
candidate."  He  was  supposed  to  bring  Mr.  Hendricks'  name 
in  as  often  as  possible.  "1  answer  that  we  want  honest  gov 
ernment,  law  and  order,  an  end  to  this  conviction  that  the 
country  is  owned  by  the  unions  and  the  capitalists,  a  fair  deal 
for  the  plain  people,  which  is  you  and  I,  my  friends.  But  I 
answer  still  further,  we  want  one  thing  more,  a  greater  thing, 
and  that  thing  we  shall  have.  All  through  this  great  country 
to-night  are  groups  of  men  hoping  and  planning  for  an  in 
credible  thing.  They  are  not  great  in  numbers ;  they  are,  how 
ever,  organized,  competent,  intelligent  and  deadly.  They  plow 
the  land  with  discord  to  sow  the  seeds  of  sedition.  And  the 
thing  they  want  is  civil  war. 

"And  against  them,  what  ?  The  people  like  you  and  me ;  the 
men  with  homes  they  love ;  the  men  with  little  businesses  they 
have  fought  and  labored  to  secure;  the  cerks;  the  preachers; 
the  doctors,  the  honest  laborers,  the  God-feanng  rich.  I 
tell  you,  we  are  the  people,  and  it  is  time  we  knew  our  power. 

"And  this  is  the  thing  we  want,  we  the  people ;  the  greater 
thing,  the  thing  we  shall  have;  that  this  government,  this 
country  which  we  love,  which  has  three  times  been  saved  at 
such  cost  of  blood,  shall  survive/' 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN  203 

It  was  after  that  speech  that  he  met  Pink  Denslow  for  the 
first  time.  A  square,  solidly  built  young  man  edged  his  way 
through  the  crowd,  and  shook  hands  with  him. 

"Name's  Denslow,"  said  Pink.  "Liked  what  you  said.  Have 
you  time  to  run  over  to  my  club  with  me  and  have  a  high-ball 
and  a  talk  ?" 

"I've  got  all  the  rest  of  the  night." 

"Right-o !"  said  Pink,  who  had  brought  back  a  phrase  or 
two  from  the  British. 

It  was  not  until  they  were  in  the  car  that  Pink  said : 

"I  think  you're  a  friend  of  Miss  Cardew's,  aren't  you?" 

"I  know  Miss  Cardew,"  said  Willy  Cameron,  guardedly. 
And  they  were  both  rather  silent  for  a  time. 

That  night  proved  to  be  a  significant  one  for  them  both,  as 
it  happened.  They  struck  up  a  curious  sort  of  friendship, 
based  on  a  humble  admiration  on  Pink's  part,  and  with  Willy 
Cameron  on  sheer  hunger  for  the  society  of  his  kind.  He  had 
been  suffering  a  real  mental  starvation.  He  had  been  con 
stantly  giving  out  and  getting  nothing  in  return. 

Pink  developed  a  habit  of  dropping  into  the  pharmacy  when 
he  happened  to  be  nearby.  He  was  rather  wistfully  envious  of 
that  year  in  the  camp,  when  Lily  Cardew  and  Cameron  had 
been  together,  and  at  first  it  was  the  bond  of  Lily  that  sent 
him  to  the  shop.  In  the  beginning  the  shop  irritated  him,  be 
cause  it  seemed  an  incongruous  background  for  the  fiery  young 
orator.  But  later  on  he  joined  the  small  open  forum  in  the 
back  room,  and  perhaps  for  the  first  time  in  his  idle  years  he 
began  to  think.  He  had  made  the  sacrifice  of  his  luxurious 
young  life  to  go  to  war,  had  slept  in  mud  and  risked  his  body 
and  been  hungry  and  cold  and  often  frightfully  homesick. 
And  now  it  appeared  that  a  lot  of  madmen  were  going  to  try 
to  undo  all  that  he  had  helped  to  do.  He  was  surprised 
and  highly  indignant.  Even  a  handful  of  agitators,  it  seemed, 
could  do  incredible  harm. 

One  night  he  and  Willy  Cameron  slipped  into  a  meeting  of  a 
Russian  Society,  wearing  old  clothes,  which  with  Willy  was  not 


204 A  POOR  WISE  MAN     

difficult,  and  shuffling  up  dirty  stairs  without  molestation. 
They  came  away  thoughtful. 

"Looks  like  it's  more  than  talk,"  Pink  said,  after  a  time. 

"They're  not  dangerous,"  Willy  Cameron  said.  "That's 
talk.  But  it  shows  a  state  of  mind.  The  real  incendiaries  don't 
show  their  hand  like  that." 

"You  think  it's  real,  then?" 

"Some  boils  don't  come  to  a  head.     But  most  do." 

It  was  after  a  mob  of  foreigners  had  tried  to  capture  the 
town  of  Donesson,  near  Pittsburgh,  and  had  been  turned  back 
by  a  hastily  armed  body  of  its  citizens,  doctors,  lawyers  and 
shop-keepers,  that  a  nebulous  plan  began  to  form  in  Willy 
Cameron's  active  mind. 

If  one  could  unite  the  plain  people  politically,  or  against  a 
foreign  war,  why  could  they  not  be  united  against  an  enemy 
at  home  ?  The  South  had  had  a  similar  problem,  and  the  re 
sult  was  the  Ku  Klux  Klan. 

The  Chief  of  Police  was  convinced  that  a  plan  was  being 
formulated  to  repeat  the  Seattle  experiment  against  the  city. 
The  Mayor  was  dubious.  He  was  not  a  strong  man ;  he  had  a 
conviction  that  because  a  thing  never  had  happened  it  never 
could  happen. 

"The  mob  has  done  it  before,"  urged  the  Chief  of  Police  one 
day.  "They  took  Paris,  and  it  was  damned  disagreeable." 

The  Mayor  was  a  trifle  weak  in  history. 

''Maybe  they  did,"  he  agreed.  "But  this  is  different.  This  is 
America." 

He  was  rather  uneasy  after  that.  It  had  occurred  to  him 
that  the  Chief  might  have  referred  to  Paris,  Illinois. 

Now  and  then  Pink  coaxed  Willy  Cameron  to  his  club,  and 
for  those  rare  occasions  he  provided  always  a  little  group  of 
men  like  themselves,  young,  eager,  loyal,  and  struggling  with 
the  new  problems  of  the  day.  In  this  environment  Willy  Cam 
eron  received  as  well  as  gave. 

Most  of  the  men  had  been  in  the  army,  and  he  found  in  them 
an  eager  anxiety  to  face  the  coming  situation  and  combat  it. 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 205 

In  the  end  the  nucleus  of  the  new  Vigilance  Committee  was 
formed  there. 

Not  immediately.  The  idea  was  of  slow  growth  even  with 
its  originator,  and  it  only  reached  the  point  of  speech  when  Mr. 
Hendricks  stopped  in  one  day  at  the  pharmacy  and  brought 
a  bundle  which  he  slapped  down  on  the  prescription  desk. 

"Read  that  dynamite,"  he  said,  his  face  flushed  and  lower 
ing.  "A  man  I  know  got  it  translated  for  me.  Read  it  and 
then  tell  me  whether  I'm  an  alarmist  and  a  plain  fool,  or  if  it 
means  trouble  around  here." 

There  was  no  question  in  Willy  Cameron's  mind  as  to  which 
it  meant. 

Louis  Akers  had  by  that  time  announced  his  candidacy  for 
Mayor,  and  organized  labor  was  behind  him  to  an  alarming1 
extent.  When  Willy  Cameron  went  with  Pink  to  the  club 
that  afternoon,  he  found  Akers  under  discussion,  and  he  heard 
some  facts  about  that  gentleman's  private  life  which  left  him 
silent  and  morose.  Pink  knew  nothing  of  Lily's  friendship 
with  Akers.  Indeed,  Pink  did  not  know  that  Lily  was  in  the 
city,  and  Willy  Cameron  had  not  undeceived  him.  It  had 
pleased  Anthony  Cardew  to  announce  in  the  press  that  Lily 
was  making  a  round  of  visits,  and  the  secret  was  not  his  to 
divulge.  But  the  question  which  was  always  in  his  mind  rose 
again.  What  did  she  see  in  the  man?  How  could  she  have 
thrown  away  her  home  and  her  family  for  a  fellow  who  was 
so  obviously  what  Pink  would  have  called  "a  wrong  one"  ? 

He  roused,  however,  at  a  question. 

"He  may,"  he  said;  "with  three  candidates  we're  splitting 
the  vote  three  ways,  and  it's  hard  to  predict.  Mr.  Cardew 
can't  be  elected,  but  he  weakens  Hendricks.  One  thing's  sure. 
Where's  my  pipe?"  Silence  while  Mr.  Cameron  searched  for 
his  pipe,  and  took  his  own  time  to  divulge  the  sure  thing.  "If 
Hendricks  is  elected  he'll  clear  out  the  entire  bunch'  of  an 
archists.  The  present  man's  afraid.  But  if  Akers  can  hypno 
tize  labor  into  voting  for  him,  and  he  gets  it,  it  will  be  up  to 
the  city  to  protect  itself,  for  he  won't.  He'll  let  them  hold 
their  infamous  meetings  and  spread  their  damnable  doctrine, 


206 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

and — you  know  what  they've  tried  to   do  in  other  places." 

He  explained  what  he  had  in  mind  then,  finding  them  ex 
pectant  and  eager.  There  ought  to  be  some  sort  of  citizen 
organization,  to  supplement  the  state  and  city  forces.  Noth 
ing  spectacular;  indeed,  the  least  said  about  it  the  better.  He 
harked  back  then  to  his  idea  of  the  plain  people,  with  homes 
to  protect. 

"That  needn't  keep  you  fellows  out,"  he  said,  with  his  whim 
sical  smile.  "But  the  rank  and  file  will  have  to  constitute  the 
big  end.  We  don't  want  a  lot  of  busybodies,  pussy-footing 
around  with  guns  and  looking  for  trouble.  We  had  enough  of 
that  during  the  war.  We  would  want  some  men  who  would 
answer  a  riot  call  if  they  were  needed.  That's  all." 

He  had  some  of  the  translations  Hendricks  had  brought  him 
in  his  pocket,  and  they  circulated  around  the  group. 

"Do  you  think  they  mean  to  attack  the  city?" 

"That  looks  like  it,  doesn't  it?  And  they  are  getting  that 
sort  of  stuff  all  the  time.  There  are  a  hundred  thousand  of 
them  in  this  end  of  the  state." 

"Would  you  make  it  a  secret  organization?" 

"Yes.  I  like  doing  things  in  the  open  myself,  but  you've 
got  to  fight  a  rat  in  his  hole,  if  he  won't  come  out." 

"Would  you  hold  office?"  Pink  asked. 

Willy  Cameron  smiled. 

"I'm  a  good  bit  like  the  boy  who  dug  post  hole?  in  the  day 
time  and  took  in  washing  at  night  to  support  the  family.  But 
I'll  work,  if  that's  what  you  mean." 

"We'd  better  have  a  constitution  and  all  that,  don't  you 
think?"  Pink  asked.  "We  can  draw  up  a  tentative  one,  and 
then  fix  it  up  at  the  first  meeting.  This  is  going  to  be  a  big 
thing.  It'll  go  like  a  fire." 

But  Willy  Cameron  overruled  that 

"We  don't  need  that  sort  of  stuff,"  he  said,  "and  if  we  begin 
that  we  might  as  well  put  it  in  the  newspapers.  We  want  men 
who  can  keep  their  mouths  shut,  and  who  will  sign  some  sort 
of  a  card  agreeing  to  stand  by  the  government  and  to  pre 
serve  law  and  order.  Then  an  office  and  a  filing  case,  and 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 207 

their  addresses,  so  we  can  get  at  thv.  in  in  a  hurry  if  we  need 
them.    Get  me  a  piece  of  paper,  somt.  body." 

Then  and  there,  in  twenty  words,  Willy  Cameron  wrote  the 
now  historic  oath  of  the  new  Vigilance  Committee,  on  the  back 
of  an  old  envelope.  It  was  a  promise,  an  agreement  rather 
than  an  oath.  There  was  a  little  hush  as  the  paper  passed 
from  hand  to  hand.  Not  a  man  there  but  felt  a  certain  solem 
nity  in  the  occasion.  To  preserve  the  Union  and  the  flag,  to 
fight  all  sedition,  to  love  their  country  and  support  it ;  the 
very  simplicity  of  the  words  was  impressive.  And  the  mere 
putting  of  it  into  visible  form  crystallized  their  hitherto  vague 
anxieties,  pointed  to  a  real  enemy  and  a  real  danger.  Yet,  as 
Willy  Cameron  pointed  out,  they  might  never  be  needed. 

"Our  job,"  he  said,  "is  only  as  a  last  resort.  Only  for  real 
trouble.  Until  the  state  troops  can  get  here,  for  instance,  and 
if  the  constabulary  is  greatly  outnumbered.  It's  their  work 
up  to  a  certain  point.  We'll  fight  if  they  need  us.  Tbat's  all." 

It  was  very  surprising  to  him  to  find  the  enterprise  financed 
immediately.  Pink  offered  an  office  in  the  bank  building. 
Some  one  agreed  to  pay  a  clerk  who  should  belong  to  the 
committee.  It  was  practical,  businesslike,  and — done.  And, 
althougn  he  had  protested,  he  found  himself  made  the  head 
of  the  organization. 

—without  title  and  without  pay,"  he  stipulated.    "If  you 
wish  a  title  on  me,  I'll  resign." 

He  went  home  that  night  very  exalted  and  very  humble. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

FOR  a  time  Lily  remained  hidden  in  the  house  on  Cardew 
Way,  walking  out  after  nightfall  with  Louis  occasionally, 
but  shrinkingly  keeping  to  quiet  back  streets.    She  had  a  horror 
of  meeting  some  one  she  knew,  of  explanations  and  of  gossip. 

But  after  a  time  the  desire  to  see  her  mother  became  over 
whelming.  She  took  to  making  little  flying  visits  home  at  an 
hour  when  her  grandfather  was  certain  to  be  away,  going  in 
a  taxicab,  and  reaching  the  house  somewhat  breathless  and 
excited.  She  was  driven  by  an  impulse  toward  the  old  fa 
miliar  things;  she  was  homesick  for  them  all,  for  her  mother, 
for  Mademoiselle,  for  her  own  rooms,  for  her  little  toilet 
table,  for  her  bed  and  her  reading  lamp.  For  the  old  house 
itself. 

She  was  still  an  alien  where  she  was.  Elinor  Doyle  was  a 
perpetual  enigma  to  her;  now  and  then  she  thought  she  had 
penetrated  behind  the  gentle  mask  that  was  Elinor's  face,  only 
to  find  beyond  it  something  inscrutable.  There  was  a  dead  line 
in  Elinor's  life  across  which  Lily  never  stepped.  Whatever 
Elinor's  battles  were,  she  fought  them  alone,  and  Lily  had 
begun  to  realize  that  there  were  battles. 

The  atmosphere  of  the  little  house  had  changed.  Sometimes, 
after  she  had  gone  to  bed,  she  heard  Doyle's  voice  from 
the  room  across  the  hall,  raised  angrily.  He  was  nervous  and 
impatient ;  tt  times  he  dropped  the  unctuousness  of  his  manner 
toward  her,  and  she  found  herself  looking  into  a  pair  of  cold 
blue  eyes  which  terrified  her. 

The  brilliant  little  dinners  had  entirely  ceased,  with  her 
coming.  A  sort  of  early  summer  lethargy  had  apparently 
settled  on  the  house.  Doyle  wrote  for  hours,  shut  in  the  room 
with  the  desk;  the  group  of  intellectuals,  as  he  had  dubbed 
them,  had  dispersed  on  summer  vacations.  But  she  discovered 
that  there  were  other  conferences  being  held  in  the  house, 
generally  late  at  night. 

208 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 209 

She  learned  to  know  the  nights  when  those  meetings  were 
to  occur.  On  those  evenings  Elinor  always  made  an  early 
move  toward  bed,  and  Lily  would  repair  to  her  hot  low-ceiled 
room,  to  sit  in  the  darkness  by  the  window  and  think  long, 
Dainful  thoughts. 

That  was  how  she  learned  of  the  conferences.  She  had  no 
curiosity  about  them  at  first.  They  had  something  to  do  with 
the  strike,  she  considered,  and  with  that  her  interest  died. 
Strikes  were  a  symptom,  and  ultimately,  through  great  thinkers 
ike  Mr.  Doyle,  they  would  discover  the  cure  for  the  disease 
that  caused  them.  She  was  quite  content  to  wait  for  that 
:ime. 

Then,  one  night,  she  went  downstairs  for  a  glass  of  ice 
water,  and  found  the  lower  floor  dark,  and  subdued  voices 
coming  from  the  study.  The  kitchen  door  was  standing  open, 
and  she  closed  and  locked  it,  placing  the  key,  as  was  Elinor's 
custom,  in  a  table  drawer.  The  door  was  partly  glass,  and 
ilinor  had  a  fear  of  the  glass  being  broken  and  thus  the  key 
turned  in  the  lock  by  some  intruder. 

On  toward  morning  there  came  a  violent  hammering  at  her 
)edroom  door,  and  Doyle's  voice  outside,  a  savage  voice  that 
she  scarcely  recognized.  When  she  had  thrown  on  her  dress- 
ng  gown  and  opened  the  door  he  had  instantly  caught  her  by 
he  shoulder,  and  she  bore  the  imprints  of  his  fingers  for  days. 

"Did  you  lock  the  kitchen  door?'*  he  demanded,  his  tones 
hick  with  fury. 

'Yes.  Why  not?"  She  tried  to  shake  off  his  hand,  but 
Bailed. 

'None  of  your  business  why  not,"  he  said,  and  'gave  her 
an  angry  shake.  "Hereafter,  when  you  find  that  door  open, 
you  leave  it  that  way.  That's  all." 

'Take  your  hands  off  me !"  She  was  rather  like  her  grand- 
'ather  at  that  moment,  and  his  lost  caution  came  back.  He 
ireed  her  at  once,  and  laughed  a  little. 

"Sorry !"  he  said.  "I  get  a  bit  emphatic  at  times.  But  there 
are  times  when  a  locked  door  becomes  a  mighty  serious 
matter." 


2io A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

The  next  day  he  removed  the  key  from  the  door,  and  sub 
stituted  a  bolt.  Elinor  made  no  protest. 

Another  night  Elinor  was  taken  ill,  and  Lily  had  been  forced 
to  knock  at  the  study  door  and  call  Doyle.  She  had  an  instant's 
impression  of  the  room  crowded  with  strange  figures.  The 
heavy  odors  of  sweating  bodies,  of  tobacco,  and  of  stale  beer 
came  through  the  half -open  door  and  revolted  her.  And 
Doyle  had  refused  to  go  upstairs. 

She  began  to  feel  that  she  could  not  remain  there  very 
long.  The  atmosphere  was  variable.  It  was  either  cynical  or 
sinister,  and  she  hated  them  both.  She  had  a  curious  feeling, 
too,  that  Doyle  both  wanted  her  there  and  did  not  want  her, 
and  that  he  was  changing  his  attitude  toward  her  Aunt 
Elinor.  Sometimes  she  saw  him  watching  Elinor  from  under 
half-closed  eyelids. 

But  she  could  not  fill  her  days  with  anxieties  and  suspicions, 
and  she  turned  to  Louis  Akers  as  a  flower  to  the  open  day. 
He  at  least  was  what  he  appeared  to  be.  There  was  nothing 
mysterious  about  him. 

He  came  in  daily,  big,  dominant  and  demonstrative,  filling 
the  house  with  his  presence,  and  demanding  her  in  a  loud, 
urgent  voice.  Hardly  had  the  door  slammed  before  he  would 
call: 

"Lily!    Where  are  you?" 

Sometimes  he  lifted  her  off  her  feet  and  held  her  to  him. 

"You  little  whiffet!"  he  would  say.  "I  could  crush  you  to 
death  in  my  arms." 

Had  his  wooing  all  been  violent  she  might  have  tired  sooner, 
because  those  phases  of  his  passion  for  her  tired  her.  But 
there  were  times  when  he  put  her  into  a  chair  and  sat  on  the 
floor  at  her  feet,  his  handsome  face  uplifted  to  hers  in  a  sort 
of  humble  adoration,  his  arms  across  her  knees.  It  was  not 
altogether  studied.  He  was  a  born  wooer,  but  he  had  his 
hours  of  humility,  of  vague  aspirations.  His  insistent  body 
was  always  greater  than  his  soul,  but  now  and  then,  when  he 
was  physically  weary,  he  had  a  spiritual  moment. 

"I  love  you,  little  girl,"  he  would  say. 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN  211 

It  was  in  one  of  those  moments  that  she  extracted  a  promise 
from  him.  He  had  been,  from  his  position  on  the  floor,  telling 
her  about  the  campaign. 

"I  don't  like  your  running  against  my  father,  Louis." 

"He  couldn't  have  got  it,  anyhow.  And  he  doesn't  want  it. 
I  do,  honey.  I  need  it  in  my  business.  When  the  election's 
over  you're  going  to  marry  me." 

She  ignored  that. 

"I  don't  like  the  men  who  come  here,  Louis.  I  wish  they 
were  not  friends  of  yours." 

"Friends  of  mine  !    That  bunch  ?" 

"You  are  always  with  them." 

"I  draw  a  salary  for  being  with  them,  honey." 

"But  what  do  you  draw  a  salary  for?"  He  was  immedi 
ately  on  the  alert,  but  her  eyes  were  candid  and  unsuspicious. 

"They  are  strikers,  aren't  they?" 

"Yes." 

"Is  it  legal  business?" 

"Partly  that." 

"Louis,  is  there  going  to  be  a  general  strike  ?" 

"There  may  be  some  bad  times  coming,  honey."  He  bent 
his  head  and  kissed  her  hands,  lying  motionless  in  her  lap.  "I 
wish  you  would  marry  me  soon.  I  want  you.  I  want  to  keep 
you  safe." 

She  drew  her  hands  away. 

"Safe  from  what,  Louis?" 

He  sat  back  and  looked  up  into  her  face. 

"You  must  remember,  dear,  that  for  all  your  theories, 
which  are  very  sweet,  this  is  a  man's  world,  and  men  have 
rather  brutal  methods  of  settling  their  differences." 

"And  you  advocate  brutality?" 

"Well,  the  war  was  brutal,  wasn't  it?  And  you  were  in  a 
white  heat  supporting  it,  weren't  you?  How  about  another 
war," — he  chose  his  words  carefully — "just  as  reasonable  and 
just?  You've  heard  Doyle.  You  know  what  I  mean." 

"Not  now !" 

He  was  amazed  at  her  horror,  a  horror  that  made  her  recoil 


212  A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

from  him  and  push  his  hands  away  when  he  tried  to  touch 
her.  He  got  up  angrily  and  stood  looking  down  at  her,  his 
hands  in  his  pockets. 

"What  the  devil  did  you  think  all  this  talk  meant?"  he  de 
manded.  "You've  heard  enough  of  it." 

"Does  Aunt  Elinor  know?" 

"Of  course." 

"And  she  approves?" 

"I  don't  know  and  I  don't  care."  Suddenly,  with  one  of  the 
quick  changes  she  knew  so  well,  he  caught  her  hands  and  draw 
ing  her  to  her  feet,  put  his  arms  around  her.  "All  I  know  is 
that  I  love  you,  and  if  you  say  the  word  I'll  cut  the  whole 
business." 

"You  would?" 

He  amended  his  offer  somewhat. 

"Marry  me,  honey,"  he  begged.  "Marry  me  now.  Do  you 
think  I'll  let  anything  in  God's  world  come  between  us? 
Marry  me,  and  I'll  do  more  than  leave  them."  He  was  whis 
pering  to  her,  stroking  her  hair.  "I'll  cut  the  whole  outfit. 
And  on  the  day  I  go  into  your  house  as  your  husband  I'll  tell 
your  people  some  things  they  want  to  know.  That's  a 
promise," 

"What  will  they  do  to  you?" 

"Your  people?" 

"The  others." 

He  drew  himself  to  his  full  height,  and  laughed. 

"They'll  try  to  do  plenty,  old  girl,"  he  said,  "but  I'm  not 
afraid  of  them,  and  they  know  it.  Marry  me,  Lily,"  he  urged. 
"Marry  me  now.  And  we'll  beat  them  out,  you  and  I." 

He  gave  her  a  sense  of  power,  over  him  and  over  evil.  She 
felt  suddenly  an  enormous  responsibility,  that  of  a  human  soul 
waiting  to  be  uplifted  and  led  aright. 

"You  can  save  me,  honey,"  he  whispered,  and  kneeling  sud 
denly,  he  kissed  the  toe  of  her  small  shoe. 

He  was  strong.    But  he  was  weak  too.    He  needed  her. 

"I'll  do  it,  Louis,"  she  said.  "You — you  will  be  good  to  me, 
won't  you?" 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 213 

"I'm  crazy  about  you." 

The  mood  of  exaltation  upheld  her  through  the  night,  and 
into  the  next  day.  Elinor  eyed  her  curiously,  and  with  some 
anxiety.  It  was  a  long  time  since  she  had  been  a  girl,  going 
about  star-eyed  with  power  over  a  man,  but  she  remembered 
that  lost  time  well. 

At  noon  Louis  came  in  for  a  hasty  luncheon,  and  before 
he  left  he  drew  Lily  into  the  little  study  and  slipped  a  solitaire 
diamond  on  her  engagement  finger.  To  Lily  the  moment  was 
almost  a  holy  one,  but  he  seemed  more  interested  in  the  quality 
of  the  stone  and  its  appearance  on  her  hand  than  in  its  sym 
bolism. 

"Got  you  cinched  now,  honey.    Do  you  like  it?" 

"It  makes  me  feel  that  I  don't  belong  to  myself  any  longer." 

"Well,  you've  passed  into  good  hands,"  he  said,  and  laughed 
his  great,  vibrant  laugh.  "Costing  me  money  already,  you 
mite !" 

A  little  of  her  exaltation  died  then.  But  perhaps  men  were 
like  that,  shyly  covering  the  things  they  felt  deepest. 

She  was  rather  surprised  when  he  suggested  keeping  the 
engagement  a  secret. 

"Except  the  Doyles,  of  course,"  he  said.  "I  am  not  taking 
any  chances  on  losing  you,  child." 

"Not  mother?" 

"Not  unless  you  want  to  be  kidnaped  and  taken  home. 
It's  only  a  matter  of  a  day  or  two,  anyhow." 

"I  want  more  time  than  that.    A  month,  anyhow." 

And  he  found  her  curiously  obstinate  and  determined.  She 
did  not  quite  know  herself  why  she  demanded  delay,  except 
that  she  shrank  from  delivering  herself  into  hands  that  were 
so  tender  and  might  be  so  cruel.  It  was  instinctive,  purely, 

"A  month,"  she  said,  and  stuck  to  it. 

He  was  rather  sulky  when  he  went  away,  and  he  had  told 
her  the  exact  amount  he  had  paid  for  her  ring. 

Having  forced  him  to  agree  to  the  delay,  she  found  her 
mood  of  exaltation  returning.  As  always,  it  was  when  he  was 
not  with  her  that  she  saw  him  most  clearly,  and  she  saw  his 


2i4 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

real  need  for  her.  She  had  a  sense  of  peace,  too,  now  that  at 
last  something  was  decided.  Her  future,  for  better  or  worse, 
would  no  longer  be  that  helpless  waiting  which  had  been  hers 
for  so  long.  And  out  of  her  happiness  came  a  desire  to 
do  kind  things,  to  pat  children  on  the  head,  to  give  alms  to  beg 
gars,  and — to  see  Willy  Cameron. 

She  came  downstairs  that  afternoon,  dressed  for  the  street. 

"I  am  going  out  for  a  little  while,  Aunt  Nellie,"  she  said, 
"and  when  I  come  back  I  want  to  tell  you  something." 

"Perhaps  I  can  guess." 

"Perhaps  you  can." 

She  was  singing  to  herself  as  she  went  out  the  door. 

Elinor  went  back  heavy-hearted  to  her  knitting.  It  was 
very  difficult  always  to  sit  by  and  wait.  Never  to  raise  a  hand. 
Just  to  wait  and  watch.  And  pray. 

Lily  was  rather  surprised,  when  she  reached  the  Eagle 
Pharmacy,  to  find  Pink  Denslow  coming  out.  It  gave  her  a 
little  pang,  too;  he  looked  so  clean  and  sane  and  normal,  so 
much  a  part  of  her  old  life.  And  it  hurt  her,  too,  to  see  him 
flush  with  pleasure  at  the  meeting. 

"Why,  Lily!"  he  said,  and  stood  there,  gazing  at  her,  hat 
in  hand,  the  sun  on  his  gleaming,  carefully  brushed  hair.  He 
was  quite  inarticulate  with  happiness.  "I — when  did  you  get 
back?" 

"I  have  not  been  away,  Pink.  I  left  home — it's  a  long  story. 
I  am  staying  with  my  aunt,  Mrs.  Doyle." 

"Mrs.  Doyle?  You  are  staying  there?" 

"Why  not  ?    My  father's  sister." 

His  young  face  took  on  a  certain  sternness. 

"If  you  knew  what  I  suspect  about  Doyle,  Lily,  you  wouldn't 
let  the  same  roof  cover  you."  But  he  added,  rather  wistfully, 
"I  wish  I  might  see  you  sometimes." 

Lily's  head  had  gone  up  a  trifle.  Why  did  her  old  world 
always  try  to  put  her  in  the  wrong?  She  had  had  to  seek  sanc 
tuary,  and  the  Doyle  house  had  been  the  only  sanctuary  she 
knew. 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 215 

"Since  you  feel  as  you  do,  I'm  afraid  that's  impossible.  Mr. 
Doyle's  roof  is  the  only  roof  I  have." 

"You  have  a  home,"  he  said,  sturdily. 

"Not  now.  I  left,  and  my  grandfather  won't  have  me  back. 
You  mustn't  blame  him,  Pink.  We  quarreled  and  I  left.  I 
was  as  much  responsible  as  he  was." 

For  a  moment  after  she  turned  and  disappeared  inside  the 
pharmacy  door  he  stood  there,  then  he  put  on  his  hat  and  strode 
down  the  street,  unhappy  and  perplexed.  If  only  she  had 
needed  him,  if  she  had  not  looked  so  self-possessed  and  so 
ever  so  faintly  defiant,  as  though  she  dared  him  to  pity  her, 
he  would  have  known  what  to  do.  All  he  needed  was  to  be 
needed.  His  open  face  was  full  of  trouble.  It  was  unthink 
able  that  Lily  should  be  in  that  center  of  anarchy;  more  un 
thinkable  that  Doyle  might  have  filled  her  up  with  all  sorts 
of  wild-ideas.  Women  were  queer ;  they  liked  theories.  A  man 
could  have  a  theory  of  life  and  play  with  it  and  boast  about 
it,  but  never  dream  of  living  up  to  it.  But  give  one  to  a  woman, 
and  she  chewed  on  it  like  a  dog  on  a  bone.  If  those  Bol 
shevists  had  got  hold  of  Lily — ! 

The  encounter  had  hurt  Lily,  too.  The  fine  edge  of  her  ex 
altation  was  gone,  and  it  did  not  return  during  her  brief  talk 
with  Willy  Cameron.  He  looked  much  older  and  very  thin; 
there  were  lines  around  his  eyes  she  had  never  seen  before, 
and  she  hated  seeing  him  in  his  present  surroundings.  But  she 
liked  him  for  his  very  unconsciousness  of  those  surroundings. 
One  always  had  to  take  Willy  Cameron  as  he  was. 

"Do  you  like  it,  Willy?"  she  asked.  It  had  dawned  on  her, 
with  a  sort  of  panic,  that  there  was  really  very  little  to  talk 
about.  All  that  they  had  had  in  common  lay  far  in  the  past. 

"Well,  it's  my  daily  bread,  and  with  bread  costing  what  it 
does,  I  cling  to  it  like  a  limpet  to  a  rock." 

"But  I  thought  you  were  studying,  so  you  could  do  some 
thing  else." 

"I  had  to  give  up  the  night  school.     But  I'll  get  back  to  it 
e." 
was  lost  again.     She   glanced  around  the  little  shop, 


216 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

where  once  Edith  Boyd  had  manicured  her  nails  behind  the 
counter,  and  where  now  a  middle-aged  woman  stood  with  list 
less  eyes  looking  out  over  the  street. 

"You  still  have  Jinx,  I  suppose?" 
;     "Yes.    I " 

Lily  glanced  up  as  he  stopped.  She  had  drawn  off  her 
gloves,  and  his  eyes  had  fallen  on  her  engagement  ring.  To 
Lily  there  had  always  been  a  feeling  of  unreality  about  his 
declaration  of  love  for  her.  He  had  been  so  restrained,  so 
careful  to  ask  nothing  in  exchange,  so  without  expectation  of 
return,  that  she  had  put  it  out  of  her  mind  as  an  impulse. 
She  had  not  dreamed  that  he  could  still  care,  after  these 
months  of  silence.  But  he  had  gone  quite  white. 

"I  am  going  to  be  married,  Willy,"  she  said,  in  a  low  tone. 

It  is  doubtful  if  he  could  have  spoken,  just  then.  And  as 
if  to  add  a  finishing  touch  of  burlesque  to  the  meeting,  a 
small  boy  with  a  swollen  jaw  came  in  just  then  and  demanded 
something  to  "make  it  stop  hurting." 

He  welcomed  the  interruption,  she  saw.  He  was  very  pro 
fessional  instantly,  and  so  absorbed  for  a  moment  in  reliev 
ing  the  child's  pain  that  he  could  ignore  his  own. 

"Let's  see  it,"  he  said  in  a  businesslike,  slightly  strained 
voice.  "Better  have  it  out,  old  chap.  But  I'll  give  you  some 
thing  just  to  ease  it  up  a  bit." 

Which  he  proceeded  to  do.  When  he  came  back  to  Lily  he 
was  quite  calm  and  self-possessed.  As  he  had  never  thought 
of  dramatizing  himself,  nor  thought  of  himself  at  all,  it  did 
not  occur  to  him  that  drama  requires  setting,  that  tragedy 
required  black  velvet  rather  than  tooth-brushes,  and  that  a 
small  boy  with  an  aching  tooth  was  a  comedy  relief  badly 
introduced. 

All  he  knew  was  that  he  had  somehow  achieved  a  moment 
in  which  to  steady  himself,  and  to  find  that  a  man  can  suffer 
horribly  and  still  smile.  He  did  that,  very  gravely,  when  he 
came  back  to  Lily. 

"Can  you  tell  me  about  it?" 

"There  is  not  very  much  to  tell.    It  is  Louis  Akers." 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 217 

The  middle-aged  clerk  had  disappeared. 

"Of  course  you  have  thought  over  what  that  means,  Lily." 

"He  wants  me  to  marry  him.  He  wants  it  very  much,  Willy. 
And — I  know  you  don't  like  him,  but  he  has  changed.  Women 
always  think  they  have  changed  men,  I  know.  But  he  is  very 
different." 

"I  am  sure  of  that,"  he  said,  steadily. 

There  was  something  childish  about  her,  he  thought.  Child 
ish  and  infinitely  touching.  He  remembered  a  night  at  the 
camp,  when  some  of  the  troops  had  departed  for  over-seas, 
and  he  had  found  her  alone  and  crying  in  her  hut.  "I  just 
can't  let  them  go,"  she  had  sobbed.  "I  just  can't.  Some 
of  them  will  never  come  back." 

Wasn't  there  something  of  that  spirit  in  her  now,  the  feeling 
that  she  could  not  let  Akers  go,  lest  worse  befall  him?  He 
did  not  know.  All  he  knew  was  that  she  was  more  like  the 
Lily  Cardew  he  had  known  then  than  she  had  been  since  her 
return.  And  that  he  worshiped  her. 

But  there  was  anger  in  him,  too.  Anger  at  Anthony  Cardew. 
Anger  at  the  Doyles.  And  a  smoldering,  bitter  anger  at 
Louis  Akers,  that  he  should  take  the  dregs  of  his  life  and 
offer  them  to  her  as  new  wine.  That  he  should  dare  to  link 
his  scheming,  plotting  days  to  this  girl,  so  wise  and  yet  so 
ignorant,  so  clear-eyed  and  yet  so  blind. 

"Do  they  know  at  home?" 

"I  am  going  to  tell  mother  to-day." 

"Lily,"  he  said,  slowly,  "there  is  one  thing  you  ought  to  do. 
Go  home,  make  your  peace  there,  and  get  all  this  on  the  right 
footing.  Then  have  him  there.  You  have  never  seen  him  in 
that  environment,  yet  that  is  the  world  he  will  have  to  live 
in,  if  you  marry  him.  See  how  he  fits  there." 

"What  has  that  got  to  do  with  it  ?" 

"Think  a  minute.  Am  I  quite  the  same  to  you  here,  as  I  was 
in  the  camp  ?" 

He  saw  her  honest  answer  in  her  eyes. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE  new  movement  was  growing  rapidly,  and  with  a  sur 
prising  catholicity  of  range.  Already  it  included  lawyers 
and  doctors,  chauffeurs,  butchers,  clergymen,  clerks  of  all 
sorts,  truck  gardeners  from  the  surrounding  county,  railroad 
employees,  and  some  of  the  strikers  from  the  mills,  men  who 
had  obeyed  their  union  order  to  quit  work,  but  had  obeyed  it 
unwillingly;  men  who  resented  bitterly  the  invasion  of  the 
ranks  of  labor  by  the  lawless  element  which  was  fomenting 
trouble. 

Dan  had  joined. 

On  the  day  that  Lily  received  her  engagement  ring  from 
Louis  Akers,  one  'of  the  cards  of  the  new  Vigilance  Com 
mittee  was  being  inspected  with  cynical  amusement  by  two 
clerks  in  a  certain  suite  of  offices  in  the  Searing  Building. 
They  studied  it  with  interest,  while  the  man  who  had  brought 
it  stood  by. 

"Where'd  you  pick  it  up,  Cusick?" 

"One  of  our  men  brought  it  into  the  store.  Said  you  might 
want  to  see  it." 

The  three  men  bent  over  it. 

The  Myers  Housecleaning  Company  had  a  suite  of  three 
rooms.  During  the  day  two  stenographers,  both  men,  sat  be 
fore  machines  and  made  a  pretense  of  business  at  such  times 
as  the  door  opened,  or  when  an  occasional  client,  seeing  the 
name,  came  in  to  inquire  for  rates.  At  such  times  the,  clerks 
were  politely  regretful.  The  firm's  contracts  were  .U  they 
could  handle  for  months  ahead. 

There  was  a  constant  ebb  and  flow  of  men  in  the  office, 
presumably  professional  cleaners.  They  came  and  went,  or 
sat  along  the  walls,  waiting.  A  large  percentage  were  foreign 
ers  but  the  clerks  proved  to  be  accomplished  linguists.  They 
talked,  with  more  or  less  fluency,  with  Croats,  Serbs,  Poles  and 
Slavs. 

218 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 219 

There  was  a  supply  room  off  the  office,  a  room  filled  with 
pails  and  brushes,  soap  and  ladders.  But  there  was  a  great 
safe  also,  and  its  compartments  were  filled  with  pamphlets  in 
many  tongues,  a  supply  constantly  depleted  and  yet  never  di 
minishing.  Workmen,  carrying  out  the  pails  of  honest  labor, 
carried  them  loaded  down  with  the  literature  it  was  their  only 
business  to  circulate. 

Thus,  openly,  and  yet  with  infinite  caution,  was  spread  the 
doctrine  of  no  God;  of  no  government,  and  of  no  church;  of 
the  confiscation  of  private  property;  of  strikes  and  unrest; 
of  revolution,  rape,  arson  and  pillage. 

And  around  this  social  cancer  the  city  worked  and  played. 
Its  theatres  were  crowded,  its  expensive  shops,  its  hotels. 
Two  classes  of  people  were  spending  money  prodigally ;  women 
with  shawls  over  their  heads,  women  who  in  all  their  peasant 
lives  had  never  owned  a  hat,  drove  in  automobiles  to  order 
their  winter  supply  of  coal,  and  vast  amounts  of  liquors  were 
being  bought  by  the  foreign  element  against  the  approaching 
prohibition  law,  and  stored  in  untidy  cellars. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  social  life  of  the  city  was  gay  with 
reaction  from  war.  The  newspapers  were  filled  with  the  sum 
mer  plans  of  the  wealthy,  and  with  predictions  of  lavish  enter 
taining  in  the  fall.  Among  the  list  of  debutantes  Lily's  name 
always  appeared. 

And,  in  between  the  upper  and  the  nether  millstone,  were 
being  ground  the  professional  and  salaried  men  with  families, 
the  women  clerks,  the  vast  army  who  asked  nothing  but  the 
right  to  work  and  live.  They  went  through  their  days  dog 
gedly  vith  little  anxious  lines  around  their  eyes,  suffering  a 
thous;  1  small  deprivations,  bewildered,  tortured  with  appre 
hension  of  to-morrow,  and  yet  patiently  believing  that,  as 
things  could  not  be  worse,  they  must  soon  commence  to  im 
prove. 

"It's  bound  to  clear  up  soon,"  said  Joe  Wilkinson  over  the 
back  fence  one  night  late  in  June,  to  Willy  Cameron.  Joe 
supported  a  large  family  of  younger  brothers  and  sisters  in 
the  house  next  door,  and  was  employed  in  a  department  store. 


220  A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

"I  figure  it  this  way — both  sides  need  each  other,  don't  they? 
Something  like  marriage,  you  know.  It'll  all  be  over  in  six 
months.  Only  I'm  thanking  heaven  just  now  it's  summer,  be 
cause  our  kids  are  hell  on  shoes." 

"I  hope  so,"  said  Willy  Cameron.  "What  are  you  doing 
over  there,  anyhow?" 

"Wait  and  see,"  said  Joe,  cryptically.  "If  you  think  you're 
going  to  be  the  only  Central  Park  in  this  vicinity  you've  got  to 
think  again."  He  hesitated  and  glanced  around,  but  the  small 
Wilkinsons  were  searching  for  worms  in  the  overturned  gar 
den  mold.  "How's  Edith?"  he  asked. 

"She's  all  right,  Joe." 

"Seeing  anybody  yet?" 

"Not  yet.    In  a  day  or  so  she'll  be  downstairs." 

"You  might  tell  her  I've  been  asking  about  her." 

There  was  something  in  Joe's  voice  that  caught  Willy 
Cameron's  attention.  He  thought  about  Joe  a  great  deal  that 
night.  Joe  was  another  one  who  must  never  know  about 
Edith's  trouble.  The  boy  had  little  enough,  and  if  he  had 
built  a  dream  about  Edith  Boyd  he  must  keep  his  dream.  He 
was  rather  discouraged  that  night,  was  Willy  Cameron,  and 
he  began  to  think  that  dreams  were  the  best  things  in  life. 
They  were  a  sort  of  sanctuary  to  which  one  fled  to  escape 
realities.  Perhaps  no  reality  was  ever  as  beautiful  as  one's 
dream  of  it. 

Lily  had  passed  very  definitely  out  of  his  life.  Sometimes 
during  his  rare  leisure  he  walked  to  Cardew  Way  through  the 
warm  night,  and  past  the  Doyle  house,  but  he  never  saw  her, 
and  because  it  did  not  occur  to  him  that  she  might  want  to 
see  him  he  never  made  an  attempt  to  call.  Always  after  those 
futile  excursions  he  was  inclined  to  long  silences,  and  only 
Jinx  could  have  told  how  many  hours  he  sat  in  his  room  at. 
night,  in  the  second-hand  easy  chair  he  had  bought,  pipe  in 
hand  and  eyes  on  nothing  in  particular,  lost  in  a  dream  world 
where  the  fields  bore  a  strong  resemblance  to  the  parade  ground 
of  an  army  camp,  and  through  which  field  he  and  Lily  wan 
dered  like  children,  hand  in  hand. 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 221 

But  he  had  many  things  to  think  of.  So  grave  were  the  im 
mediate  problems,  of  food  and  rent,  of  Mrs.  Boyd  and  Edith, 
that  a  little  of  his  fine  frenzy  as  to  the  lurking  danger  of 
revolution  departed  from  him.  The  meetings  in  the  back 
room  at  the  pharmacy  took  on  a  political  bearing,  and  Hen- 
dricks  was  generally  the  central  figure.  The  ward  felt  that 
Mr.  Hendricks  was  already  elected,  and  called  him  "Mr. 
Mayor."  At  the  same  time  the  steel  strike  pursued  a  course  of 
comparative  calm.  At  Friendship  and  at  Baxter  there  had 
been  rioting,  and  a  fatality  or  two,  but  the  state  constabulary 
had  the  situation  well  in  hand.  On  a  Sunday  morning  Willy 
Cameron  went  out  to  Baxter  on  the  trolley,  and  came  home 
greatly  comforted.  The  cool-eyed  efficiency  of  the  state  police 
reassured  him.  He  compared  them,  disciplined,  steady,  calm 
with  the  calmness  of  their  dangerous  calling,  with  the  rabble 
of  foreigners  who  shuffled  along  the  sidewalks,  and  he  felt  that 
his  anxiety  had  been  rather  absurd. 

He  was  still  making  speeches,  and  now  and  then  his  name 
was  mentioned  in  the  newspapers.  Mrs.  Boyd,  now  mostly 
confined  to  her  room,  spent  much  time  in  searching  for  these 
notices,  and  then  in  painfully  cutting  them  out  and  pasting  them 
in  a  book.  On  those  days  when  there  was  nothing  about  him 
she  felt  thwarted,  and  was  liable  to  sharp  remarks  on  news 
papers  in  general,  and  on  those  of  the  city  in  particular. 

Then,  just  as  he  began  to  feel  that  the  strike  would  pass  off 
like  other  strikes,  and  that  Doyle  and  his  crowd,  having 
plowed  the  field  for  sedition,  would  find  it  planted  with 
healthier  grain,  he  had  a  talk  with  Edith. 

She  came  downstairs  for  the  first  time  one  Wednesday  eve 
ning  early  in  July,  the  scars  on  her  face  now  only  faint  red 
blotches,  and  he  placed  hev,  a  blanket  over  her  knees,  in  the 
small  parlor.  Dan  had  brought  her  down  and  had  made  a 
real  effort  to  be  kind,  but  his  suspicion  of  the  situation  made 
it  difficult  for  him  to  dissemble,  and  soon  he  went  out.  Ellen 
was  on  the  doorstep,  and  through  the  open  window  came  the 
shrieks  of  numerous  little  Wilkinsons  wearing  out  expensive 
shoe-leather  on  the  brick  pavement. 


222 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 


They  sat  in  the  dusk  together,  Edith  very  quiet,  Willy  Cam 
eron  talking  with  a  sort  of  determined  optimism.  After  a  time 
he  realized  that  she  was  not  even  listenirg. 

"I  wish  you'd  close  the  window,"  she  3aid  at  last.  "Those 
crazy  Wilkinson  kids  make  such  a  racket.  I  want  to  tell  you 
something." 

"All  right."  He  closed  the  window  and  stood  looking  down 
at  her.  "Are  you  sure  you  want  me  to  hear  it?"  he  asked 
gravely. 

"Yes.  It  is  not  about  myself.  I've  been  reading  the  news 
papers  while  I've  been  shut  away  up  there,  Willy.  It  kept 
me  from  thinking.  And  if  things  are  as  bad  as  they  say  I'd 
better  tell  you,  even  if  I  get  into  trouble  doing  it.  I  will,  prob 
ably.  Murder's  nothing  to  them." 

"Who  are  'them'?" 

"You  get  the  police  to  search  the  Myers  Housecleaning 
Company,  in  the  Searing  Building." 

"Don't  you  think  you'd  better  tell  me  more  than  that  ?  The 
police  will  want  something  definite  to  go  on." 

She  hesitated. 

"I  don't  know  very  much.  I  met  somebody  there,  once 
or  twice,  at  night.  And  I  know  there's  a  telephone  hidden 
in  the  drawer  of  the  desk  in  the  back  room.  I  swore  not  to 
tell,  but  that  doesn't  matter  now.  Tell  them  to  examine  the 
safe,  too.  I  don't  know  what's  in  it.  Dynamite,  maybe." 

"What  makes  you  think  the  company  is  wrong?  A  hidden 
telephone  isn't  much  to  go  on." 

"When  a  fellow's  had  a  drink  or  two,  he's  likely  to  talk," 
she  said  briefly,  and  before  that  sordid  picture  Willy  Cameron 
was  silent.  After  a  time  he  said: 

"You  won't  tell  me  the  name  of  the  man  you  met.  there?" 

"No.    Don't  ask  me,  Willy.    That's  between  him  and  me." 

He  got  up  and  took  a  restless  turn  or  two  about  the  little 
room.  Edith's  problem  had  begun  to  obsess  him.  Not  for 
long  would  it  be  possible  to  keep  her  condition  from  Mrs. 
Boyd.  He  was  desperately  at  a  loss  for  some  course  to 
pursue. 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 223 

"Have  you  ever  thought,"  he  said  at  last,  "that  this  man, 
whoever  he  is,  ought  to  marry  you?" 

Edith's  face  set  like  a  flint. 

"I  don't  want  to  marry  him,"  she  said.  "I  wouldn't  marry 
him  if  he  was  the  last  man  on  earth." 

He  knew  very  little  of  Edith's  past.  In  his  own  mind  he 
had  fixed  on  Louis  Akers,  but  he  could  not  be  sure. 

"I  won't  tell  you  his  name,  either,"  Edith  added,  shrewishly. 
Then  her  voice  softened.  "I  will  tell  you  this,  Willy,"  she 
said  wistfully.  "I  was  a  good  girl  until  I  knew  him.  I'm  not 
saying  that  to  let  myself  out.  It's  the  truth." 

"You're  a  good  girl  now,"  he  said  gravely. 

Some  time  after  he  got  his  hat  and  came  in  to  tell  her 
he  was  going  out. 

"I'll  tell  what  you've  told  me  to  Mr.  Hendricks,"  he  said. 
"And  we  may  go  on  and  have  a  talk  with  the  Chief  of  Police. 
If  you  are  right  it  may  be  important." 

After  that  for  an  hour  or  two  Edith  sat  alone,  save  when 
Ellen  now  and  then  looked  in  to  see  if  she  was  comfortable. 

Edith's  mind  was  chaotic.  She  had  spoken  on  impulse,  a 
good  impulse  at  that.  But  suppose  they  trapped  Louis  Akers 
in  the  Searing  Building? 

Ellen  went  now  and  then  to  the  Cardew  house,  and  brought 
back  with  her  the  news  of  the  family.  At  first  she  had  sternly 
refused  to  talk  about  the  Cardews  to  Edith,  but  the  days  in 
the  sick  room  had  been  long  and  monotonous,  and  Edith's 
jealousy  of  Lily  had  taken  the  form,  when  she  could  talk,  of 
incessant  questions. 

So  Edith  knew  that  Louis  Akers  had  been  the  cause 
of  Lily's  leaving  home,  and  called  her  a  poor  thing  in  her 
heart.  Quite  lately  she  had  heard  that  if  Lily  was  not  already 
engaged  she  probably  would  be,  soon. 

Now  her  motives  were  mixed,  and  her  emotions  con 
fused.  She  had  wanted  to  tell  Willy  Cameron  what  she  knew, 
but  she  wanted  Lily  to  marry  Louis  Akers.  She  wanted  that 
terribly.  Then  Lily  would  be  out  of  the  way,  and — 

Willy  was  not  like  Dan;  he  did  not  seem  to  think  her  for- 


224 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

ever  lost.  He  had  always  been  thoughtful,  but  lately  he  had 
been  very  tender  with  her.  Men  did  strange  things  some 
times.  He  might  be  willing  to  forget,  after  a  long  time.  She 
could  board  the  child  out  somewhere,  if  it  lived.  Sometimes 
they  didn't  live. 

But  if  they  arrested  Louis,  Lily  Cardew  would  fling  him 
aside  like  an  old  shoe. 

She  closed  her  eyes.  That  opened  a  vista  of  possibilities  she 
would  not  face. 

She  stopped  in  her  mother's  room  on  her  slow  progress 
upstairs,  moved  to  sudden  pity  for  the  frail  life  now  wearing 
to  its  close.  If  that  were  life  she  did  not  want  it,  with  its 
drab  days  and  futile  effort,  its  incessant  deprivations,  its  hands, 
gnarled  with  work  that  got  nowhere,  its  greatest  blessing  sleep 
and  forgetfulness. 

She  wondered  why  her  mother  did  not  want  to  die,  to  get 
away. 

"I'll  soon  be  able  to  look  after  you  a  bit,  mother,"  she  said 
from  the  doorway.  "How's  the  pain  down  your  arm?" 

"Bring  me  the  mucilage,  Edie,"  requested  Mrs.  Boyd.  She 
was  propped  up  in  bed  and  surrounded  by  newspapers.  "I've 
found  Willy's  name  again.  I've  got  fourteen  now.  Where's 
the  scissors?" 

Eternity  was  such  a  long  time.  Did  she  know?  Could  she 
know,  and  still  sit  among  her  pillows,  snipping? 

"I  wonder,"  said  Mrs.  Boyd,  "did  anybody  feed  Jinx?  That 
Ellen  is  so  saving  that  she  grudges  him  a  bone." 

"He  looks  all  right,"  said  Edith,  and  went  on  up  to  bed. 
Maybe  the  Lord  did  that  for  people,  when  they  reached  a  cer 
tain  point.  Maybe  He  took  away  the  fear  of  death,  by  show 
ing  after  years  of  it  that  life  was  not  so  valuable  after  all. 
She  remembered  her  own  facing  of  eternity,  and  her  dread 
of  what  lay  beyond.  She  had  prayed  first,  because  she  wanted 
to  have  some  place  on  the  other  side.  She  had  prayed  to  be 
received  young  and  whole  and  without  child.  And  her 
mother — 

Then  she  had  a  flash  of  intuition.     There  was  something 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 225 

greater  than  life,  and  that  was  love.  Her  mother  was  upheld 
by  love.  That  was  what  the  eternal  cutting  and  pasting  meant. 
She  was  lavishing  all  the  love  of  her  starved  days  on  Willy 
Cameron;  she  was  facing  death,  because  his  hand  was  close 
by  to  hold  to. 

For  just  a  moment,  sitting  on  the  edge  of  her  bed,  Edith 
Boyd  saw  what  love  might  be,  and  might  do.  She  held  out 
both  hands  in  the  darkness,  but  no  strong  and  friendly  clasp 
caught  them  close.  If  she  could  only  have  him  to  cling,  to, 
to  steady  her  wavering  feet  along  the  gray  path  that 
stretched  ahead,  years  and  years  of  it.  Youth.  Middle  age. 
Old  age. 

"I'd  only  drag  him  down,"  she  muttered  bitterly. 

Willy  Cameron,  meanwhile,  had  gone  to  Mr.  Hendricks 
with  Edith's  story,  and  together  late  that  evening  they  saw 
the  Chief  of  Police  at  his  house.  Both  Willy  Cameron  and 
Mr.  Hendricks  advocated  putting  a  watch  on  the  offices  of  the 
Myers  Housecleaning  Company  and  thus  ultimately  getting 
the  heads  of  the  organization.  But  the  Chief  was  unwilling 
to  delay. 

"Every  day  means  more  of  their  infernal  propaganda,"  he 
said,  "and  if  this  girl's  telling  a  straight  story,  the  thing  to 
do  is  to  get  the  outfit  now.  Those  clerks,  for  instance — we'll 
get  some  information  out  of  them.  That  sort  always  squeals. 
They're  a  cheap  lot." 

"Going  to  ball  it  up,  of  course,"  Mr.  Hendricks  said  dis 
gustedly,  on  the  way  home.  "Won't  wait,  because  if  Akers 
gets  in  he's  out,  and  he  wants  to  make  a  big  strike  first.  I'll 
drop  in  to-morrow  evening  and  tell  you  what's  happened." 

PC  came  into  the  pharmacy  the  next  evening,  with  a  bundle 
of  red-bound  pamphlets  under  his  arm,  and  a  look  of  disgust 
on  his  face. 

"What  did  I  tell  you,  Cameron?"  he  demanded,  breathing 
heavily.  "Yes,  they  got  them  all  right.  Got  a  safe  full  of 
stuff  so  inflammable  that,  since  I've  read  some  of  it,  I'm  ready 
to  blow  up  myself.  It's  worse  than  that  first  lot  I  showed  you. 


226 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

They  got  the  two  clerks,  and  a  half-dozen  foreigners,  too. 
And  that's  all  they  got." 

"They  won't  talk?" 

"Talk?  Sure  they'll  talk.  They  say  they're  employed  by 
the  Myers  Housecleaning  Company,  that  they  never  saw  the 
inside  of  the  vault,  and  they're  squealing  louder  than  two  pigs 
under  a  gate  about  false  arrest.  They'll  have  to  let  them  go, 
son.  Here.  You  can  do  most  everything.  Can  you  read 
Croatian?  No?  Well,  here's  something  in  English  to  cut 
your  wisdom  teeth  on.  Overthrowing  the  government  is  where 
these  fellows  start." 

It  was  intelligent,  that  propaganda.  Willy  Cameron  thought 
he  saw  behind  it  Jim  Doyle  and  other  men  like  Doyle,  men 
who  knew  the  discontents  of  the  world,  and  would  fatten  by 
them;  men  who,  secretly  envious  of  the  upper  classes  and 
unable  to  attain  to  them,  would  pull  all  men  to  their  own 
level,  or  lower.  Men  who  cloaked  their  own  jealousies  with 
the  garb  of  idealism.  Intelligent  it  was,  dangerous,  and 
imminent. 

The  pamphlets  spoke  of  "the  day."  It  was  a  Prussian  phrase. 
The  revolution  was  Prussian.  And  like  the  Germans,  they 
offered  loot  as  a  rewardL  They  appealed  to  the  ugliest  pas 
sions  in  the  world,  to  lust  and  greed  and  idleness. 

At  a  signal  the  mass  was  to  arise,  overthrow  its  masters 
and  rule  itself. 

Mr.  Hendricks  stood  in  the  doorway  of  the  pharmacy  and 
stared  out  at  the  city  he  loved. 

"Just  how  far  does  that  sort  of  stuff  go,  Cameron?"  he 
asked.  "Will  our  people  take  it  up?  Is  the  American  nation 
going  crazy?" 

"Not  a  bit  of  it,"  said  Willy  Cameron  stoutly."  They're  about 
as  able  to  overthrow  the  government  as  you  are  to  shove  over 
the  Saint  Elmo  Hotel." 

"I  could  do  that,  with  a  bomb." 

"No,  you  couldn't.  But  you  could  make  a  fairly  sizeable 
hole  in  it.  It's  the  hole  we  don't  want." 

Mr.  Hendricks  went  away,  vaguely  comforted. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

TO  old  Anthony  the  early  summer  had  been  full  of  humilia- 
'tions,  which  he  carried  with  an  increased  arrogance  of 
bearing  that  alienated  even  his  own  special  group  at  his  club. 

"Confound  the  man,"  said  Judge  Peterson,  holding  forth  on 
the  golf  links  one  Sunday  morning  while  Anthony  Cardew, 
hectic  with  rage,  searched-  for  a  lost  ball  and  refused  to  drop 
another.  "He'll  hold  us  up  all  morning  for  that  ball,  just  as  he 
tries  to  hold  up  all  progress."  He  lowered  his  voice.  "What's 
happened  to  the  granddaughter,  anyhow  ?" 

Senator  Loveil  lighted  a  cigarette. 

"Turned  Bolshevist,"  he  said,  briefly. 

The  Judge  gazed  at  him. 

"That's  a  pretty  serious  indictment,  isn't  it?" 

"Well,  that's  what  I  hear.  She's  living  in  Jim  Doyle's  house. 
I  guess  that's  the  answer.  Hey,  Cardew!  D'you  want  these 
young  cubs  behind  us  to  play  through,  or  are  you  going  to 
show  some  sense  and  come  on?" 

Howard,  fighting  his  father  tooth  and  nail,  was  compelled 
to  a  reluctant  admiration  of  his  courage.     But  there  was  no 
cordiality  between  them.     They  were  in  accord  again,  as  to 
the  strike,  although  from  different  angles.    Both  of  them  knew 
that  they  were  fighting  for  very  life;  both  of  them  felt  that 
the  strikers'  demands  meant  the  end  of  industry,  meant  that 
the  man  who  risked  money  in  a  business  would  eventually 
cease  to  control  that  business,  although  if  losses  came  it  would 
be  he,  and  not  the  workmen,  who  bore  them.     Howard  had; 
gone  as  far  as  he  could  in  concessions,  and  the  result  was  only^ 
the  demand  for  more.     The  Cardews,  father  and  son,  stood  j 
now  together,  their  backs  against  a  wall,  and  fought  doggedly  J 

But  only  anxiety  held  them  together. 

His  father  was  now  backing  Howard's  campaign  for  the 
mayoralty,  but  he  was  rather  late  with  his  support,  and  in 

227 


228 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

private  he  retained  his  cynical  attitude.  He  had  not  come 
over  at  all  until  he  learned  that  Louis  Akers  was  an  opposi 
tion  candidate.  At  that  his  wrath  knew  no  bounds  and  the 
next  day  he  presented  a  large  check  to  the  campaign  com 
mittee. 

Mr.  Hendricks,  hearing  of  it,  was  moved  to  a  dry  chuckle. 

"Can't  you  hear  him?"  he  demanded.  "He'd  stalk  into 
headquarters  as  important  as  an  office  boy  who's  been  sent  to 
the  bank  for  money,  and  he'd  slam  down  his  check  and  say 
just  two  words/' 

"Which  would  be?"  inquired  Willy  Cameron. 

/"Buy  'em'/'  quoted  Mr.  Hendricks.  "The  old  boy  doesn't 
know  that  things  have  changed  since  the  8o's.  This  city  has 
changed,  my  lad.  It's  voting  now  the  way  it  thinks,  right  or 
wrong.  That's  why  these  foreign  language  papers  can  play 
the  devil  with  us.  The  only  knowledge  the  poor  wretches 
have  got  of  us  is  what  they're  given  to  read.  And  most  of  it 
stinks  of  sedition.  Queer  thing,  this  thinking.  A  fellow  can 
think  himself  into  murder." 

The  strike  was  going  along  quietly  enough.  There  had  been 
rioting  through  the  country,  but  not  of  any  great  significance. 
It  was  in  reality  a  sort  of  trench  warfare,  with  each  side  dug 
in  and  waiting  for  the  other  to  show  himself  in  the  open. 
The  representatives  of  the  press,  gathered  in  the  various  steel 
cities,  with  automobiles  arranged  for  to  take  them  quickly  to 
any  disturbance  that  might  develop,  found  themselves  with 
little  news  for  the  telegraph,  and  time  hung  heavy  on  their 
hands. 

On  an  evening  in  July,  Howard  found  Grace  dressing 
for  dinner,  and  realized  with  a  shock  that  she  was  looking  thin 
and  much  older.  He  kissed  her  and  then  held  her  off  and 
looked  at  her.  ^ 

"You've  got  to  keep  your  courage  up,  dear,"  he  said.  "I 
don't  think  it  will  be  long  now." 

"Have  you  seen  her?" 

"No.  But  something  has  happened.  Don't  look  like  that, 
Grace.  It's  not " 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 229 

"She  hasn't  married  that  man?" 

"No.  Not  that.  It  only  touches  her  indirectly.  But  she 

can't  stay  there.  Even  Elinor "  he  checked  himself.  "I'll 

tell  you  after  dinner." 

Dinner  was  very  silent,  although  Anthony  delivered  himself 
of  one  speech  rather  at  length. 

"So  far  as  I  can  make  out,  Howard,"  he  said,  "this  man 
Hendricks  is  getting  pretty  strong.  He  has  a  young  fellow 
talking  for  him  who  gets  over  pretty  well.  It's  my  judgment 
that  Hendricks  had  better  be  bought  off.  He  goes  around 
shouting  that  he's  a  plain  man,  after  the  support  of  the  plain 
people.  Although  I'm  damned  if  I  know  what  he  means  by 
that." 

Anthony  Cardew  was  no  longer  comfortable  in  his  own 
house.  He  placed  the  blame  for  it  on  Lily,  and  spent  as  many 
evenings  away  from  home  as  possible.  He  considered  that 
life  was  using  him  rather  badly.  Tied  to  the  city  in  summer 
by  a  strike,  his  granddaughter  openly  gone  over  to  his  enemy, 
his  own  son,  so  long  his  tool  and  his  creature,  merely  staying 
in  his  house  to  handle  him,  an  income  tax  law  that  sent  him 
to  his  lawyers  with  new  protests  almost  daily !  A  man  was  no 
longer  master  even  in  his  own  home.  His  employees  would 
not  work  for  him,  his  family  disobeyed  him,  his  government 
held  him  up  and  shook  him.  In  the  good  old  days — 

"I'm  going  out,"  he  said,  as  he  rose  from  the  table.  "Grace, 
that  chef  is  worse  than  the  last.  You'd  better  send  him  off." 

"I  can't  get  any  one  else.  I  have  tried  for  weeks.  There 
are  no  servants  anywhere." 

"Try  New  York." 

"I  have  tried — it  is  useless/* 

No  cooks,  either.  No  servants.  Even  Anthony  recognized 
that,  with  the  exception  of  Grayson,  the  servants  in  his  house 
were  vaguely  hostile  to  the  family.  They  gave  grudging  ser 
vice,  worked  short  kours,  and,  the  only  class  of  labor  to  which 
the  high  cost  of  food  was  a  negligible  matter,  demanded  wages 
he  considered  immoral. 

"I  don't  know  what  the  world's  coming  to,"  he  snarled. 


230  A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

"Well,  I'm  off.  Thank  God,  there  are  still  clubs  for  a  man 
to  go  to." 

"I  want  to  have  a  talk  with  you,  father." 

"I  don't  want  to  talk." 

"You  needn't.  I  want  you  to  listen,  and  I  want  Grace  to 
hear,  too." 

In  the  end  he  went  unwillingly  into  the  library,  and  when 
Grayson  had  brought  liqueurs  and  coffee  and  had  gone, 
Howard  drew  the  card  from  his  pocket. 

"I  met  young  Denslow  to-day,"  he  said.  "He  came  in  to 
see  me.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  signed  a  card  he  had  brought 
along,  and  I  brought  one  for  you,  sir.  Shall  I  read  it  ?" 

"You  evidently  intend  to." 

Howard  read  the  card  slowly.  Its  very  simplicity  was  im 
pressive,  as  impressive  as  it  had  been  when  Willy  Cameron 
scrawled  the  words  on  the  back  of  an  old  envelope.  Anthony 
listened. 

"Just  what  does  that  mean?" 

"That  the  men  behind  this  movement  believe  that  there  is 
going  to  be  a  general  strike,  with  an  endeavor  to  turn  it  into  a 
revolution.  Perhaps  only  local,  but  these  things  have  a  ten 
dency  to  spread.  Denslow  had  some  literature  which  re 
ferred  to  an  attempt  to  take  over  the  city.  They  have  other 
information,  too,  all  pointing  the  same  way." 

"Strikers?" 

"Foreign  strikers,  with  the  worst  of  the  native  born.  Their 
plans  are  fairly  comprehensive;  they  mean  to  dynamite  the 
water  works,  shut  down  the  gas  and  electric  plants,  and  cut 
off  all  food  supplies.  Then  when  they  have  starved  and  ter 
rorized  us  into  submission,  we'll  accept  their  terms." 

"What  terms?" 

"Well,  the  rule  of  the  mob,  I  suppose.  They  intend  to  take 
over  the  banks,  for  one  thing." 

"I  don't  believe  it.    It's  incredible." 

"They  meant  to  do  it  in  Seattle." 

"And  didn't.     Don't  forget  that." 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 231 

"They  may  have  learned  some  things  from  Seattle/'  Howard 
said  quietly. 

"We  have  the  state  troops." 

"What  about  a  half  dozen  similar  movements  in  the  state 
at  the  same  time?  Or  rioting  in  other  places,  carefully  planned 
to  draw  the  troops  and  constabulary  away?" 

In  the  end  old  Anthony  was  impressed,  if  not  entirely  con 
vinced.  But  he  had  no  faith  in  the  plain  people,  and  said  so. 

"They'll  see  property  destroyed  and  never  lift  a  hand/'  he 
said.  "Didn't  I  stand  by  in  Pittsburgh  during  the  railroad 
riots,  and  watch  them  smile  while  the  yards  burned  ?  Because 
the  railroads  meant  capital  to  them,  and  they  hate  capital." 

"Precisely,"  said  Howard,  "but  after  twenty-four  hours 
they  were  fighting  like  demons  to  restore  law  and  order.  It 
is" — he  fingered  the  card — "to  save  that  twenty-four  hours 
that  this  organization  is  being  formed.  It  is  secret.  Did  I 
tell  you  that  ?  And  the  idea  originated  with  the  young  man  you 
spoke  about  as  supporting  Hendricks — you  met  him  here  once, 
a  friend  of  Lily's.  His  name  is  Cameron — William  Wallace 
Cameron." 

Old  Anthony  remained  silent,  but  the  small  jagged  vein  on 
his  forehead  swelled  with  anger.  After  a  time : 

"I  suppose  Doyle  is  behind  this  ?"  he  asked.  "It  sounds  like 
him." 

"That  is  the  supposition.  But  they  have  nothing  on  him 
yet;  he  is  too  shrewd  for  that.  And  that  leads  to  something 
else.  Lily  cannot  continue  to  stay  there." 

"I  didn't  send  her  there." 

"Actually,  no.  In  effect — but  we  needn't  go  into  that  now. 
The  situation  is  very  serious.  I  can  imagine  that  nothing 
could  fit  better  into  his  plans  than  to  have  her  there.  She 
gives  him  a  cachet  of  respectability.  Do  you  want  that?" 

"She  is  probably  one  of  them  now.  God  knows  how  much 
of  his  rotten  doctrine  she  has  absorbed." 

Howard  flushed,  but  he  kept  his  temper. 

"His  theories,  possibly.  His  practice,  no.  She  certainly  has 
no  idea  ...  it  has  come  to  this,  father.  She  must  have  a 


232 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

home  somewhere,  and  if  it  cannot  be  here,  Grace  and  I  must 
make  one  for  her  elsewhere/' 

Probably  Anthony  Cardew  had  never  respected  Howard 
more  than  at  that  moment,  or  liked  him  less. 

"Both  you  and  Grace  are  free  to  make  a  home  where  you 
please/' 

"We  prefer  it  here,  but  you  must  see  yourself  that  things 
cannot  go  on  as  they  are.  We  have  waited  for  you  to  see 
that,  all  three  of  us,  and  now  this  new  situation  makes  it 
imperative  to  take  some  action." 

"I  won't  have  that  fellow  Akers  coming  here." 

"He  would  hardly  come,  under  the  circumstances.  Besides, 
her  friendship  with  him  is  only  a  part  of  her  revolt.  If  she 
comes  home  it  will  be  with  the  understanding  that  she  does 
not  see  him  again." 

"Revolt?"  said  old  Anthony,  raising  his  eyebrows. 

"That  is  what  it  acually  was.  She  found  her  liberty  inter 
fered  with,  and  she  staged  her  own  small  rebellion.  It  was 
very  human,  I  think." 

"It  was  very  Cardew,"  said  old  Anthony,  and  smiled  faintly. 
He  had,  to  tell  the  truth,  developed  a  grudging  admiration  for 
his  granddaughter  in  the  past  two  months.  He  saw  in  her  many 
of  his  own  qualities,  good  and  bad.  And,  more  than  he  cared 
to  own,  he  had  missed  her  and  the  young  life  she  had  brought 
into  the  quiet  house.  Most  important  of  all,  she  was  the  last 
of  the  Cardews.  Although  his  capitulation  when  it  came  was 
curt,  he  was  happier  than  he  had  been  for  weeks. 

"Bring  her  home,"  he  said,  "but  tell  her  about  Akers.  If 
she  says  that  is  off,  I'll  forget  the  rest." 

On  her  way  to  her  room  that  night  Grace  Cardew  en 
countered  Mademoiselle,  a  pale,  unhappy  Mademoiselle,  who 
seemed  to  spend  her  time  mostly  in  Lily's  empty  rooms  or 
wandering  about  corridors.  Whenever  the  three  members  of 
the  family  were  together  she  would  retire  to  her  own  quarters, 
and  there  feverishly  with  her  rosary  would  pray  for  a  softening 
of  hearts.  She  did  not  comprehend  these  Americans,  who 
were  so  kind  to  those  beneath  them  and  so  hard  to  each  other. 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 233 

"I  wanted  to  see  you,  Mademoiselle,"  Grace  said,  not  very 
steadily.  "I  have  good  news  for  you." 

Mademoiselle  began  to  tremble.  "She  is  coming?  Lily 
is  coming?" 

"Yes.  Will  you  have  some  fresh  flowers  put  in  her  rooms 
in  the  morning?" 

Suddenly  Mademoiselle  forgot  her  years  of  repression,  and 
flinging  her  arms  around  Grace's  neck  she  kissed  her.  Grace 
held  her  for  a  moment,  patting  her  shoulder  gently. 

"We  must  try  to  make  her  very  happy,  Mademoiselle.  I 
think  things  will  be  different  now." 

Mademoiselle  stood  back  and  wiped  her  eyes. 

"But  she  must  be  different,  too,"  she  said.  "She  is  sweet 
and  good,  but  she  is  strong  of  will,  too.  The  will  to  do,  to 
achieve,  that  is  one  thing,  and  very  good.  But  the  will  to  go 
one's  own  way,  that  is  another." 

"The  young  are  always  headstrong,  Mademoiselle." 

But,  alone  later  on,  her  rosary  on  her  knee,  Mademoiselle 
wondered.  If  youth  were  the  indictment  against  Lily,  was  she 
not  still  young  ?  It  took  years,  or  suffering,  or  sometimes  both, 
to  break  the  will  of  youth  and  chasten  its  spirit.  God  grant 
Lily  might  not  have  suffering. 

It  was  Grace's  plan  to  say  nothing  to  Lily,  but  to  go  for  her 
herself,  and  thus  save  her  the  humiliation  of  coming  back 
alone.  All  morning  housemaids  were  busy  in  Lily's  rooms. 
Rugs  were  shaken,  floors  waxed  and  rubbed,  the  silver  frames 
and  vases  in  her  sitting  room  polished  to  refulgence.  And  all 
morning  Mademoiselle  scolded  and  ran  suspicious  ringers  into 
corners,  and  arranged  and  re-arranged  great  boxes  of  flowers. 

Long  before  the  time  she  had  ordered  the  car  Grace  was 
downstairs,  dressed  for  the  street,  and  clad  in  cool  shining 
silk,  was  pacing  the  shaded  hall.  There  was  a  vague  air  of 
expectation  about  the  old  house.  In  a  room  off  the  pantry  the 
second  man  was  polishing  the  buttons  of  his  livery,  using  a- 
pasteboard  card  with  a  hole  in  it  to  save  the  fabric  beneath. 
Grayson  pottered  about  in  the  drawing  room,  alert  for  the 
parlor  maid's  sins  of  omission. 


234 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

The  telephone  in  the  library  rang,  and  Grayson  answered  it, 
while  Grace  stood  in  the  doorway. 

"A  message  from  Miss  Lily/'  he  said.  "Mrs.  Doyle  has 
telephoned  that  Miss  Lily  is  on  her  way  here." 

Grace  was  vaguely  disappointed.  She  had  wanted  to  go 
to  Lily  with  her  good  news,  to  bring  her  home  bag  and  baggage, 
to  lead  her  into  the  house  and  to  say,  in  effect,  that  this  was 
home,  her  home.  She  had  felt  that  they,  and  not  Lily,  should 
take  the  first  step. 

She  went  upstairs,  and  taking  off  her  hat,  smoothed  her 
soft  dark  hair.  She  did  not  want  Lily  to  see  how  she  had 
worried;  she  eyed  herself  carefully  for  lines.  Then  she  went 
down,  to  more  waiting,  and  for  the  first  time,  to  a  little  doubt. 

Yet  when  Lily  came  all  was  as  it  should  have  been.  There 
was  no  doubt  about  her  close  embrace  of  her  mother,  her 
happiness  at  seeing  her.  She  did  not  remove  her  gloves, 
however,  and  after  she  had  put  Grace  in  a  chair  and  perched 
herself  on  the  arm  of  it,  there  was  a  little  pause.  Each  was 
preparing  to  tell  something,  each  hesitated.  Because  Grace's 
task  was  the  easier  it  was  she  who  spoke  first. 

"I  was  about  to  start  over  when  you  telephoned,  dear,"  she 
said.  "I — we  want  you  to  come  home  to  us  again." 

There  was  a  queer,  strained  silence. 

"Who  wants  me  ?"  Lily  asked,  unsteadily. 

"All  of  us.  Your  grandfather,  too.  He  expects  to  find 
you  here  to-night.  I  can  explain  to  your  Aunt  Elinor  over  the 
telephone,  and  we  can  send  for  your  clothes." 

Suddenly  Lily  got  up  and  walked  the  length  of  the  room. 
When  she  came  back  her  eyes  were  filled  with  tears,  and  her 
left  hand  was  bare. 

"It  nearly  kills  me  to  hurt  you,"  she  said,  "but — what  about 
this?" 

She  held  out  her  hand. 

Grace  seemed  frozen  in  her  chair.  At  the  sight  of  her 
mother's  face  Lily  flung  herself  on  her  knees  beside  the 
chair. 

"Mother,  mother,"  she  said,  "you  must  know  how  I  love 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 235 

you.    Love  you  both.    Don't  look  like  that.     I  can't  bear  it." 

Grace  turned  away  her  face. 

"You  don't  love  us.  You  can't.  Not  if  you  are  going  to 
marry  that  man." 

"Mother,"  Lily  begged,  desperately,  "let  me  come  home.  Let 
me  bring  him  here.  I'll  wait,  if  you'll  only  do  that.  He  is 
different ;  I  know  all  that  you  want  to  say  about  his  past.  He 
has  never  had  a  real  chance  in  all  his  life.  He  won't  belong  at 
first,  but — he's  a  man,  mother,  a  strong  man.  And  it's  awfully 
important.  He  can  do  so  much,  if  he  only  will.  And  he  says 
he  will,  if  I  rnarry  him." 

"I  don't  understand  you,"  Grace  said  coldly.  "What  can 
a  man  like  that  do,  but  wreck  all  our  lives?" 

Resentment  was  rising  fast  in  Lily,  but  she  kept  it  down. 

"I'll  tell  you  about  that  later,"  she  said,  and  slowly  got  to 
her  feet.  "Is  that  all,  mother?  You  won't  see  him?  I  can't 
bring  him  here?  Isn't  there  any  compromise?  Won't  you 
meet  me  half-way  ?" 

"When  you  say  half-way,  you  mean  all  the  way,  Lily." 

"I  wanted  you  so,"  Lily  said,  drearily,  "I  need  you  so  just 
now.  I  am  going  to  be  married,  and  I  have  no  one  to  go  to. 
Aunt  Elinor  doesn't  understand,  either.  Every  way  I  look  I 
find — I  suppose  I  can't  come  back  at  all,  then." 

"Your  grandfather's  condition  was  that  you  never  see  this 
Louis  Akers  again." 

Lily's  resentment  left  her.  Anger  was  a  thing  for  small 
matters,  trivial  affairs.  This  that  was  happening,  an  irrevo 
cable  break  with  her  family,  was  as  far  beyond  anger  as  it 
was  beyond  tears.  She  wondered  dully  if  any  man  were  worth 
all  this.  Perhaps  she  knew,  sub-consciously,  that  Louis  Akers 
was  not.  All  her  exaltation  was  gone,  and  in  its  stead  was  a 
sort  of  dogged  determination  to  see  the  thing  through  now, 
at  any  cost;  to  re-make  Louis  into  the  man  he  could  be,  to 
build  her  own  house  of  life,  and  having  built  it,  to  live  in  it 
as  best  she  could. 

"That  is  a  condition  I  cannot  fulfill,  mother.  I  am  engaged 
to  him." 


236 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

"Then  you  love  him  more  than  you  do  any  of  us,  or  all  of 
us." 

"I  don't  know.     It  is  different,"  she  said  vaguely. 

She  kissed  her  mother  very  tenderly  when  she  went  away, 
but  there  was  a  feeling  of  finality  in  them  both.  Mademoiselle, 
waiting  at  the  top  of  the  stairs,  heard  the  door  close  and  could 
not  believe  her  ears.  Grace  went  upstairs,  her  face  a  blank 
before  the  servants,  and  shut  herself  in  her  room.  And  in 
Lily's  boudoir  the  roses  spread  a  heavy,  funereal  sweetness 
over  the  empty  room. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE  strike  had  been  carried  on  with  comparatively  little 
disorder.  In  some  cities  there  had  been  rioting,  but  half 
hearted  and  easily  controlled.  Almost  without  exception  it 
was  the  foreign  and  unassimilated  element  that  broke  the 
peace.  Alien  women  spat  on  the  state  police,  and  flung  stones 
at  them.  Here  and  there  property  was  destroyed.  A  few 
bomb  outrages  filled  the  newspapers  with  great  scare-heads, 
and  sent  troops  and  a  small  army  of  secret  service  men  here 
and  there. 

In  the  American  Federation  of  Labor  a  stocky  little  man 
grimly  fought  to  oppose  the  Radical  element,  which  was  slowly 
gaining  ground,  and  at  the  same  time  to  retain  his  leadership. 
The  great  steel  companies,  united  at  last  by  a  common  danger 
and  a  common  fate  if  they  yielded,  stood  doggedly  and  courage 
ously  together,  waiting  for  a  return  of  sanity  to  the  world. 
The  world  seemed  to  have  gone  mad.  Everywhere  in  the 
country  production  was  reduced  by  the  cessation  of  labor, 
and  as  a  result  the  cost  of  living  was  mounting. 

And  every  strike  lost  in  the  end.  Labor  had  yet  to  learn 
that  to  cease  to  labor  may  express  a  grievance,  but  that  in  it 
self  it  righted  no  wrongs.  Rather,  it  turned  that  great  weapon, 
public  opinion,  without  which  no  movement  may  succeed, 
against  it.  And  that  to  stand  behind  the  country  in  war  was 
not  enough.  It  must  stand  behind  the  country  in  peace. 

It  had  to  learn,  too,  that  a  chain  is  only  as  strong  as  its 
•weakest  link.  The  weak  link  in  the  labor  chain  was  its  Radical 
element.  Rioters  were  arrested  with  union  cards  in  their 
pockets.  In  vain  the  unions  protested  their  lack  of  sympathy 
with  the  unruly  element.  The  vast  respectable  family  of  union 
labor  found  itself  accused  of  the  sins  of  the  minority,  and  lost 
standing  thereby. 

At  Friendship  the  unruly  element  was  very  strong.  For  a 

237 


238  A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

time  it  held  its  meetings  in  a  hall.    When  that  was  closed  it 
resorted  to  the  open  air. 

On  the  fifteenth  of  July  it  held  an  incendiary  meeting  on 
the  unused  polo  field,  and  the  next  day  awakened  to  the  sound 
of  hammers,  and  to  find  a  high  wooden  fence,  reenforced  with 
barbed  wire,  being  built  around  the  field,  with  the  state  police 
on  guard  over  the  carpenters.  In  a  few  days  the  fence  was 
finished,  only  to  be  partly  demolished  the  next  night,  secretly 
and  noiselessly.  But  no  further  attempts  were  made  to  hold 
meetings  there.  It  was  rumored  that  meetings  were  being 
secretly  held  in  the  woods  near  the  town,  but  the  rendezvous 
was  not  located. 

On  the  restored  fence  around  the  polo  grounds  a  Red  flag 
was  found  one  morning,  and  two  nights  later  the  guard  at  the 
padlocked  gate  was  shot  through  the  heart,  from  ambush. 

Then,  about  the  first  of  August,  out  of  a  clear  sky,  sporadic 
riotings  began  to  occur.  They  seemed  to  originate  without 
cause,  and  to  end  as  suddenly  as  they  began.  Usually  they 
were  in  the  outlying  districts,  but  one  or  two  took  place  in  the 
city  itself.  The  rioters  were  not  all  foreign  strikers  from  the 
mills.  They  were  garment  workers,  hotel  waiters,  a  rabble 
of  the  discontented  from  all  trades.  The  riots  were  to  no  end, 
apparently.  They  began  with  a  chance  word,  fought  their 
furious  way  for  an  hour  or  so,  and  ended,  leaving  a  trail  of 
broken  heads  and  torn  clothing  behind  them. 

On  toward  the  end  of  July  one  such  disturbance  grew  to 
considerable  size.  The  police  were  badly  outnumbered,  and 
a  surprising  majority  of  the  rioters  were  armed,  with 
revolvers,  with  wooden  bludgeons,  lengths  of  pipe  and 
short,  wicked  iron  bars.  Things  were  rather  desperate  until 
the  police  found  themselves  suddenly  and  mysteriously  reen 
forced  by  a  cool-headed  number  of  citizens,  led  by  a  tall  thin 
man  who  limped  slightly,  and  who  disposed  his  hetero 
geneous  support  with  a  few  words  and  considerable  skill. 

The  same  thin  young  man,  stopping  later  in  an  alley  way  to 
investigate  an  arm  badly  bruised  by  an  iron  bar,  overheard  a 
conversation  between  two  roundsmen,  met  under  a  lamp- 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN      239 

post  after  the  battle,  for  comfort  and  a  little  conversation. 

"Can  you  beat  that,  Henry?"  said  one.  "Where  the  hell'd 
they  come  from?" 

"Search  me,"  said  Henry.  "D'you  see  the  skinny  fellow? 
Limped,  too.  D'you  notice  that?  Probably  hurt  in  France. 
But  he  hasn't  forgotten  how  to  fight,  I'll  tell  the  world." 

The  outbreaks  puzzled  the  leaders  of  the  Vigilance  Com 
mittee.  Willy  Cameron  was  inclined  to  regard  them  as  without 
direction  or  intention,  purely  as  manifestations  of  hate,  and 
as  such  contrary  to  the  plans  of  their  leaders.  And  Mr. 
Hendricks,  nursing  a  black  eye  at  home  after  the  recent  out 
burst,  sized  up  the  situation  shrewdly. 

"You  can  boil  a  kettle  too  hard/'  he  said,  "and  then  the 
lid  pops  off.  Doyle  and  that  outfit  of  his  have  been  burning 
the  fire  a  little  high,  that's  ail.  They'll  quit  now,  because  they 
want  to  get  us  off  guard  later.  You  and  your  committee  can 
take  a  vacation,  unless  you  can  set  them  to  electioneering  for 
me.  They've  had  enough  for  a  while,  the  devils.  They'll  wait 
now  for  Akers  to  get  in  and  make  things  easy  for  them.  Mind 
my  words,  boy.  That's  the  game." 

And  the  game  it  seemed  to  be.  Small  violations  of  order  still 
occurred,  but  no  big  ones.  To  the  headquarters  in  the  Denslow 
Bank  came  an  increasing  volume  of  information,  to  be  duly 
docketed  and  filed.  Some  of  it  was  valueless.  Now  and  then 
there  came  in  something  worth  following  up.  Thus  one  night 
Pink  and  a  picked  band,  following  a  vague  clew,  went  in 
automobiles  to  the  state  borderline,  and  held  up  and  captured 
two  trucks  loaded  with  whiskey  and  destined  for  Friendship 
and  Baxter.  He  reported  to  Willy  Cameron  late  that  night. 

"Smashed  it  all  up  and  spilled  it  in  the  road,"  he  said.  "Hurt 
like  sin  to  do  it,  though.  Felt  like  the  fellow  who  shot  the  last 
passenger  pigeon." 

But  if  the  situation  in  the  city  was  that  of  armed  neutrality, 
in  the  Boyd  house  things  were  rapidly  approaching  a  climax, 
and  that  through  Dan.  He  was  on  edge,  constantly  to  be 
placated  and  watched.  The  strike  was  on  his  nerves ;  he  felt 
his  position  keenly,  resented  Willy  Cameron  supporting  the 


24Q A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

family,  and  had  developed  a  curious  jealousy  of  his  mother's 
affection  for  him. 

Toward  Edith  his  suspicions  had  now  become  certainty,  and 
an  open  break  came  on  an  evening  when  she  said  that  she  felt 
able  to  go  to  work  again.  They  were  at  the  table,  and  Ellen 
was  moving  to  and  from  the  kitchen,  carrying  in  the  meal. 
Her  utmost  thrift  could  not  make  it  other  than  scanty,  and 
finally  Dan  pushed  his  plate  away. 

"Going  back  to  work,  are  you  ?"  he  sneered.  "And  how  long 
do  you  think  you'll  be  able  to  work  ?" 

"You  keep  quiet,"  Edith  flared  at  him.  "I'm  going  to  work. 
That's  all  you  need  to  know.  I  can't  sit  here  and  let  a  man 
who  doesn't  belong  to  us  provide  every  bite  we  eat,  if  you  can." 

Willy  Cameron  got  up  and  closed  the  door,  for  Mrs.  Boyd 
had  an  uncanny  ability  to  hear  much  that  went  on  below. 

"Now,"  he  said  when  he  came  back,  "we  might  as  well  have 
this  out.  Dan  has  a  right  to  be  told,  Edith,  and  he  can  help 
us  plan  something."  He  turned  to  Dan.  "It  must  be  kept 
from  your  mother,  Dan." 

"Plan  something !"  Dan  snarled.     "I  know  what  to  plan,  all 

right.     I'll  find  the "  he  broke  into  foul,  furious  language, 

but  suddenly  Willy  Cameron  rose,  and  there  was  something 
threatening  in  his  eyes. 

"I  know  who  it  is,"  Dan  said,  more  quietly,  "and  he's  got 
to  marry  her,  or  I'll  kill  him." 

"You  know,  do  you?  Well,  you  don't,"  Edith  said,  "and 
I  won't  marry  him  anyhow." 

"You  will  marry  him.  Do  you  think  I'm  going  to  see  mother 
disgraced,  sick  as  she  is,  and  let  you  get  away  with  it?  Where 
does  Akers  live?  You  know,  don't  you?  You've  been  there, 
haven't  you?" 

All  Edith's  caution  was  forgotten  in  her  shame  and  anger. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  she  said,  hysterically,  "but  I  won't  tell  you. 
And  I  won't  marry  him.    I  hate  him.     If  you  go  to  him  he'll 
beat  you  to  death."     Suddenly  the  horrible  picture  of  Dan  in    : 
Akers'  brutal  hands  overwhelmed  her.    "Dan,  you  won't  go?"   ' 
she  begged.     "He'll  kill  you." 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 241] 

"A  lot  you'd  care/'  he  said,  coldly.  "As  if  we  didn't  have 
enough  already !  As  if  you  couldn't  have  married  Joe  Wilkin 
son,  next  door,  and  been  a  decent  woman.  And  instead,  you're 
a " 

"Be  quiet,  Dan,"  Willy  Cameron  interrupted  him.  "That 
sort  of  talk  doesn't  help  any.  Edith  is  right.  If  you  go  to 
Akers  there  will  be  a  fight.  And  that's  no  way  to  protect  her." 

"God !"  Dan  muttered.  "With  all  the  men  in  the  world,  to 
choose  that  rotten  anarchist!" 

It  was  sordid,  terribly  tragic,  the  three  of  them  sitting  there 
in  the  badly  lighted  little  room  around  the  disordered  table, 
with  Ellen  grimly  listening  in  the  doorway,  and  the  odors  of 
cooking  still  heavy  in  the  air.  Edith  sat  there,  her  hands  on 
the  table,  staring  ahead,  and  recounted  her  wrongs.  She  had 
never  had  a  chance.  Home  had  always  been  a  place  to  get 
away  from.  Nobody  had  cared  what  became  of  her.  And 
hadn't  she  tried  to  get  out  of  the  way  ?  Only  they  all  did  their 
best  to  make  her  live.  She  wished  she  had  died. 

Dan,  huddled  low  in  his  chair,  his  legs  sprawling,  stared  at 
nothing  with  hopeless  eyes. 

Afterwards  Willy  Cameron  could  remember  nothing  of  the 
scene  in  detail.  He  remembered  its  setting,  but  of  all  the 
argument  and  quarreling  only  one  thing  stood  out  distinctly, 
and  that  was  Edith's  acceptance  of  Dan's  accusation.  It  was 
Akers,  then.  And  Lily  Cardew  was  going  to  marry  him.  Was 
in  love  with  him. 

"Does  he  know  how  things  are?"  he  asked. 

She  nodded.     "Yes." 

"Does  he  offer  to  do  anything?" 

"Him?  He  does  not.  And  don't  you  go  to  him  and  try 
to  get  him  to  marry  me.  I  tell  you  I'd  die  first." 

He  left  them  there,  sitting  in  the  half  light,  and  going 
out  into  the  hall  picked  up  his  hat.  Mrs.  Boyd  heard  him  and 
called  to  him,  and  before  he  went  out  he  ran  upstairs  to  her 
room.  It  seemed  to  him,  as  he  bent  over  her,  that  her  lips 
were  bluer  than  ever,  her  breath  a  little  shallower  and  more 
difficult.  Her  untouched  supper  tray  was  beside  her. 


242 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

"I  wasn't  hungry,"  she  explained.  "Seems  to  me,  Willy,  if 
you'd  let  me  go  downstairs  so  I  could  get  some  of  my  own 
cooking  I'd  eat  better.  Ellen's  all  right,  but  I  kind  o'  crave 
sweet  stuff,  and  she  don't  like  making  desserts." 

"You'll  be  down  before  long,"  he  assured  her.  "And  making 
me  pies.  Remember  those  pies  you  used  to  bake?" 

"You  always  were  a  great  one  for  my  pies,"  she  said,  com 
placently. 

He  kissed  her  when  he  left.  He  had  always  marveled  at 
the  strange  lack  of  demonstrativeness  in  the  household,  and 
he  knew  that  she  valued  his  small  tendernesses. 

"Now  remember,"  he  said,  "light  out  at  ten  o'clock,  and  no 
going  downstairs  in  the  middle  of  the  night  because  you  smell 
smoke.  When  you  do,  it's  my  pipe." 

"I  don't  think  you  hardly  ever  go  to  bed,  Willy." 

"Me?    Get  too  much  sleep.    I'm  getting  fat  with  it." 

The  stale  little  joke  was  never  stale  with  her.  He  left  her 
smiling,  and  went  down  the  stairs  and  out  into  the  street. 

He  had  no  plan  in  his  mind  except  to  see  Louis  Akers,  and 
to  find  out  from  him  if  he  could  what  truth  there  was  in  Edith 
Boyd's  accusation.  He  believed  Edith,  but  he  must  have  ab 
solute  certainty  before  he  did  anything.  Girls  in  trouble  some 
times  shielded  men.  If  he  could  get  the  facts  from  Louis 
Akers — but  he  had  no  idea  of  what  he  would  do  then.  He 
couldn't  very  well  tell  Lily,  but  her  people  might  do  something. 
Or  Mrs.  Doyle. 

He  knew  Lily  well  enough  to  know  that  she  would  far  rather 
die  than  marry  Akers,  under  the  circumstances.  That  her 
failure  to  marry  Louis  Akers  would  mean  anything  as  to  his 
own  relationship  with  her  he  never  even  considered.  All  that 
had  been  settled  long  ago,  when  she  said  she  did  not  love  him. 

At  the  Benedict  he  found  that  his  man  had  not  come  home, 
and  for  an  hour  or  two  he  walked  the  streets.  The  city  seemed 
less  majestic  to  him  than  usual ;  its  quiet  by-streets  were  lined 
with  homes,  it  is  true,  but  those  very  streets  hid  also  vice  and 
degradation,  and  ugly  passions.  They  sheltered,  but  also  they 
concealed. 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 243 

At  eleven  o'clock  he  went  back  to  the  Benedict,  and  was 
told  that  Mr.  Akers  had  come  in. 

It  was  Akers  himself  who  opened  the  door.  Because  the 
night  was  hot  he  had  shed  coat  and  shirt,  and  his  fine  torso, 
bare  to  the  shoulders  and  at  the  neck,  gleamed  'in  the  electric 
light.  Willy  Cameron  had  not  seen  him  since  those  spring  days 
when  he  had  made  his  casual,  bold-eyed  visits  to  Edith  at  the 
pharmacy,  and  he  had  a  swift  insight  into  the  power  this  man 
must  have  over  women.  He  himself  was  tall,  but  Akers  was 
taller,  fully  muscled,  his  head  strongly  set  on  a  neck  like  a 
column.  But  he  surmised  that  the  man  was  soft,  out  of  con 
dition.  And  he  had  lost  the  first  elasticity  of  youth. 

Akers'  expression  had  changed  from  one  of  annoyance  to 
watchfulness  when  he  opened  the  door. 

"Well !"  he  said.    "Making  a  late  call,  aren't  you  ?" 

"What  I  had  to  say  wouldn't  wait." 

Akers  had,  rather  unwillingly,  thrown  the  door  wide,  and 
he  went  in.  The  room  was  very  hot,  for  a  small  fire,  littered 
as  to  its  edges  with  papers,  burned  in  the  grate.  Although  he 
knew  that  Akers  had  guessed  the  meaning  of  his  visit  at  once 
and  was  on  guard,  there  was  a  moment  or  two  when  each 
sparred  for  an  opening. 

"Sit  down.    Have  a  cigarette?" 

"No,  thanks."    He  remained  standing. 

"Or  a  high-ball?     I  still  have  some  fairly  good  whiskey." 

"No.    I  came  to  ask  you  a  question,  Mr.  Akers." 

"Well,  answering  questions  is  one  of  the  best  little  things 
I  do." 

"You  know  about  Edith  Boyd's  condition.  She  says  you  are 
responsible.  Is  that  true  ?" 

Louis  Akers  was  not  unprepared.  Sooner  or  later  he  had 
known  that  Edith  would  tell.  But  what  he  had  not  counted 
on  was  that  she  would  tell  any  one  who  knew  Lily.  He  had 
felt  that  her  leaving  the  pharmacy  had  eliminated  that  chance. 

"What  do  you  mean,  her  condition?" 

"You  know.    She  says  she  has  told  you." 

"You're  pretty  thick  with  her  yourself,  aren't  you?" 


244 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

"I  happen  to  live  at  the  Boyd  house." 

He  was  keeping  himself  well  under  control,  but  Akers  saw 
his  hand  clench,  and  resorted  to  other  tactics.  He  was  not 
angry  himself,  but  he  was  wary  now;  he  considered  that  life 
was  unnecessarily  complicated,  and  that  he  had  a  distinct 
grievance. 

"I  have  asked  you  a  question,  Mr.  Akers." 

"You  don't  expect  me  to  answer  it,  do  you?" 

"I  do." 

"If  you  have  come  here  to  talk  to  me  about  marrying 
her " 

"She  won't  marry  you,"  Willy  Cameron  said  steadily. 
"That's  not  the  point.  I  want  your  own  acknowledgment  of 
responsibility,  that's  all." 

Akers  was  puzzled,  suspicious,  and  yet  relieved.  He 
lighted  a  cigarette  and  over  the  match  stared  at  the  other 
man's  quiet  face. 

"No !"  he  said  suddenly.  "I'm  damned  if  I'll  take  the  re 
sponsibility.  She  knew  her  way  around  long  before  I  ever 
saw  her.  Ask  her.  She  can't  lie  about  it.  I  can  produce  other 
men  to  prove  what  I  say.  I  played  around  with  her,  but  I 
don't  know  whose  child  that  is,  and  I  don't  believe  she  does." 

"I  think  you  are  lying." 

"All  right.     But  I  can  produce  the  goods." 

Willy  Cameron  went  very  pale.  His  hands  were  clenched 
again,  and  Akers  eyed  him  warily. 

"None  of  that,"  he  cautioned.  "I  don't  know  what  interest 
you've  got  in  this,  and  I  don't  give  a  God-damn.  But  you'd 
better  not  try  any  funny  business  with  me." 

Willy  Cameron  smiled.  Much  the  sort  of  smile  he  had  worn 
during  the  rioting. 

"I  don't  like  to  soil  my  hands  on  you,"  he  said,  "but  I  don't 
mind  telling  you  that  any  man  who  ruins  a  girl's  life  and  then 
tries  to  get  out  of  it  by  defaming  her,  is  a  skunk." 

Akers  lunged  at  him. 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 245 

Some  time  later  Mr.  William  Wallace  Cameron  descended  to 
the  street.  He  wore  his  coat  collar  turned  up  to  conceal  the 
absence  of  certain  articles  of  wearing  apparel  which  he  had 
mysteriously  lost.  And  he  wore,  too,  a  somewhat  distorted, 
grim  and  entirely  complacent  smile. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE  city  had  taken  the  rioting  with  a  weary  philosophy. 
It  was  tired  of  fighting.  For  two  years  it  had  labored  at 
high  tension  for  the  European  war.  It  had  paid  taxes  and 
bought  bonds,  for  the  war.  It  had  saved  and'skimped  and  de 
nied  itself,  for  the  war.  And  for  the  war  it  had  made  steel, 
steel  for  cannon  and  for  tanks,  for  ships  and  for  railroads.  It 
had  labored  hard  and  well,  and  now  all  it  wanted  was  to  be  al 
lowed  to  get  back  to  normal  things.  It  wanted  peace. 

It  said,  in  effect:  "I  have  both  fought  and  labored,  sacri 
ficed  and  endured.  Give  me  now  my  rest  of  nights,  after 
a  day's  work.  Give  me  marriage  and  children.  Give  me 
contentment.  Give  me  the  things  I  have  loved  long  since,  and 
lost  awhile." 

And  because  the  city  craved  peace,  it  was  hard  to  rouse  it 
to  its  danger.  It  was  war-weary,  and  its  weariness  was  not  of 
apathy,  but  of  exhaustion.  It  was  not  yet  ready  for  new 
activity. 

Then,  the  same  night  that  had  seen  Willy  Cameron's  en 
counter  with  Akers,  it  was  roused  from  its  lethargy.  A  series 
of  bomb  outrages  shook  the  downtown  district.  The  Denslow 
Bank  was  the  first  to  go.  Willy  Cameron,  inspecting  a  cut 
lip  in  his  mirror,  heard  a  dull  explosion,  and  ran  down  to  the 
street.  There  he  was  joined  by  Joe  Wilkinson,  in  trousers 
over  his  night  shirt,  and  as  they  looked,  a  dull  red  glare  showed 
against  the  sky.  Joe  went  back  for  more  clothing,  but  Willy 
Cameron  ran  down  the  street.  At  the  first  corner  he  heard 
a  second  explosion,  further  away  and  to  the  east,  but  appar 
ently  no  fire  followed  it.  That,  he  learned  later,  was  the  City 
Club,  founded  by  Anthony  Cardew  years  before. 

The  Denslow  Bank  was  burning.  The  fagade  had  been 
shattered  and  from  the  interior  already  poured  a  steady  flow 
of  flame  and  smoke.  He  stood  among  the  crowd,  while  the 

246 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 247 

engines  throbbed  and  the  great  fire  hose  lay  along  the  streets, 
and  watched  the  little  upper  room  where  the  precious  records 
of  the  Committee  were  burning  brightly.  The  front  wall  gone, 
the  small  office  stood  open  to  the  world,  a  bright  and  shameless 
thing,  flaunting  its  nakedness  to  the  crowd  below. 

He  wondered  why  Providence  should  so  play  into  the  hands 
of  the  enemy. 

After  a  time  he  happened  on  Pink  Denslow,  wp-dering 
alone  on  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd. 

"Just  about  kill  the  governor,  this,"  said  Pink,  heavily. 
"Don't  suppose  the  watchmen  got  out,  either.  Not  that  they'd 
care,"  he  added,  savagely. 

"How  about  the  vaults  ?    I  suppose  they  are  fireproof  ?" 

"Yes.  Do  you  realize  that  every  record  we've  got  has 
gone?  D'you  suppose  those  fellows  knew  about  them?" 

Willy  Cameron  had  been  asking  himself  the  same  question. 

"Trouble  is/'  Pink  went  on,  "you  don't  know  who  to  trust. 
They're  not  all  foreigners.  Let's  get  away  from  here ;  it  makes 
me  sick." 

They  wandered  through  the  night  together,  almost  uncon 
sciously  in  the  direction  of  the  City  Club,  but  within  a  block 
of  it  they  realized  that  something  was  wrong.  A  hospital 
ambulance  dashed  by,  its  gong  ringing  wildly,  and  a  fire  engine, 
not  pumping,  stood  at  the  curb. 

"Come  on,"  Pink  said  suddenly.  "There  were  two  explo 
sions.  It's  just  possible — — " 

The  club  was  more  sinister  than  the  burning  bank ;  it  was  a 
mass  of  grim  wreckage,  black  and  gaping,  with  now  and  then 
the  sound  of  settling  masonry,  and  already  dotted  with  the 
moving  flash-lights  of  men  who  searched. 

To  Pink  this  catastrophe  was  infinitely  greater  than  that  of 
the  bank.  Men  he  knew  had  lived  there.  There  were  old 
club  servants  who  were  like  family  retainers ;  one  or  two  em 
ployees  were  ex-service  men  for  whom  he  had  found  employ 
ment.  He  stood  there,  with  Willy  Cameron's  hand  on  his 
arm,  with  a  new  maturity  and  a  vast  suffering  in  his  face. 

"Before  God,"  he  said  solemnly,  "I  swear  never  to  rest  until 


248 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

the  fellows  behind  this  are  tried,  condemned  and  hanged. 
You've  heard  it,  Cameron." 

The  death  list  for  that  night  numbered  thirteen,  the  two 
watchmen  at  the  bank  and  eleven  men  at  the  club,  two  of  them 
members.  Willy  Cameron,  going  home  at  dawn,  exhausted 
and  covered  with  plaster  dust,  bought  an  extra  and  learned 
that  a  third  bomb,  less  powerful,  had  wrecked  the  mayor's 
house.  It  had  been  placed  under  the  sleeping  porch,  and  but 
for  the  accident  of  a  sick  baby  the  entire  family  would  have 
been  wiped  out. 

Even  his  high  courage  began  to  waver.  His  records  were 
gone ;  that  was  all  to  do  over  again.  But  what  seemed  to  him 
the  impasse  was  this  fighting  in  the  dark.  An  unseen  enemy, 
always.  And  an  enemy  which  combined  with  skill  a  total  lack 
of  any  rules  of  warfare,  which  killed  here,  there  and  every 
where,  as  though  for  the  sheer  joy  of  killing.  It  struck  at  the 
high  but  killed  the  low.  And  it  had  only  begun. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

DOMINANT  family  traits  have  a  way  of  skipping  one 
generation  and  appearing  in  the  next.  Lily  Cardew  at 
that  stage  of  her  life  had  a  considerable  amount  of  old  An 
thony's  obstinacy  and  determination,  although  it  was  softened 
by  a  long  line  of  Cardew  women  behind  her,  women  who  had 
loved,  and  suffered  dominance  because  they  loved.  Her  very 
infatuation  for  Louis  Akers,  like  Elinor's  for  Doyle,  was 
possibly  an  inheritance  from  her  fore-mothers,  who  had  been 
wont  to  overlook  the  evil  in  a  man  for  the  strength  in  him. 
Only  Lily  mistook  physical  strength  for  moral  fibre,  insolence 
and  effrontery  for  courage. 

In  both  her  virtues  and  her  faults,  however,  irrespective  of 
heredity,  Lily  represented  very  fully  the  girl  of  her  position 
and  period.  With  no  traditions  to  follow,  setting  her  course 
by  no  compass,  taught  to  think  but  not  how  to  think,  resentful 
of  tyranny  but  unused  to  freedom,  she  moved  ahead  along  the 
path  she  had  elected  to  follow,  blindly  and  obstinately,  yet  un 
happy  and  suffering. 

Her  infatuation  for  Louis  Akers  had  come  to  a  new  phase 
of  its  rapid  development.  She  had  reached  that  point  where 
a  woman  realizes  that  the  man  she  loves  is,  not  a  god  of 
strength  and  wisdom,  but  a  great  child  who  needs  her.  It  is 
at  that  point  that  one  of  two  things  happens :  the  weak  woman 
abandons  him,  and  follows  her  dream  elsewhere.  The  woman 
of  character,  her  maternal  instinct  roused,  marries  him,  bears 
him  children,  is  both  wife  and  mother  to  him,  and  finds  in  their 
united  weaknesses  such  strength  as  she  can. 

In  her  youth  and  self-sufficiency  Lily  stood  ready  to  give, 
rather  than  to  receive.  She  felt  now  that  he  needed  her  more 
than  she  needed  him.  There  was  something  unconsciously 
patronizing  those  days  in  her  attitude  toward  him,  and  if  he 
recognized  it  he  did  not  resent  it.  Women  had  always  been 

249 


25Q A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

"easy"  for  him.  Her  very  aloofness,  her  faint  condescension, 
her  air  of  a  young  grande  dame,  were  a  part  of  her  attraction 
for  him. 

Love  sees  clearly,  and  seeing,  loves  on.  But  infatuation  is 
blind ;  when  it  gains  sight,  it  dies.  Already  Lily  was  seeing 
him  with  the  critical  eyes  of  youth,  his  loud  voice,  his  over- 
fastidious  dress,  his  occasional  grossnesses.  To  offset  these 
she  placed  vast  importance  on  his  promise  to  leave  his  old  asso 
ciates  when  she  married  him. 

The  time  was  very  close  now.  She  could  not  hold  him  off 
much  longer,  and  she  began  to  feel,  too,  that  she  must  soon 
leave  the  house  on  Cardew  Way.  Doyle's  attitude  to  her  was 
increasingly  suspicious  and  ungracious.  She  knew  that  he 
had  no  knowledge  of  Louis's  promise,  but  he  began  to  feel  that 
she  was  working  against  him,  and  showed  it. 

And  in  Louis  Akers  too  she  began  to  discern  an  inclination 
not  to  pull  out  until  after  the  election.  He  was  ambitious,  and 
again  and  again  he  urged  that  he  would  be  more  useful  for  the 
purpose  in  her  mind  if  he  were  elected  first. 

That  issue  came  to  a  climax  the  day  she  had  seen  her  motfier 
and  learned  the  terms  on  which  she  might  return  home.  She 
was  alarmed  by  his  noisy  anger  at  the  situation. 

"Do  sit  down,  Louis,  and  be  quiet,"  she  said.  "You  have 
known  their  attitude  all  along,  haven't  you?" 

"I'll  show  them,"  he  said,  thickly.  "Damned  snobs!"  He 
glanced  at  her  then  uneasily,  and  her  expression  put  him  on 
his  guard.  "I  didn't  mean  that,  little  girl.  Honestly  I  didn't. 
I  don't  care  for  myself.  It's  you." 

"You  must  understand  that  they  think  they  are  acting  for 
my  good.  And  I  am  not  sure,"  she  added,  her  clear  eyes  on 
him,  "that  they  are  not  right.  You  frighten  me  sometimes, 
Louis." 

But  a  little  later  he  broke  out  again.  If  he  wasn't  good 
enough  to  enter  their  house,  he'd  show  them  something.  The 
election  would  show  them  something.  They  couldn't  refuse 
to  receive  the  mayor  of  the  city.  She  saw  then  that  he  was 
bent  on  remaining  with  Doyle  until  after  the  election. 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 251 

Lily  sat  back,  listening  and  thinking.  Sometimes  she  thought 
that  he  did  not  love  her  at  all.  He  always  said  he  wanted  her, 
but  that  was  different. 

"I  think  you  love  yourself  more  than  you  love  rne,  Louis," 
she  said,  when  he  had  exhausted  himself.  "I  don't  believe  you 
know  what  love  is." 

That  brought  him  to  his  knees,  his  arms  around  her,  kissing 
her  hands,  begging  her  not  to  give  him  up,  and  once  again  her 
curious  sense  of  responsibility  for  him  triumphed. 

"You  will  marry  me  soon,  dear,  won't  you  ?"  he  implored  her. 

But  she  thought  of  Willy  Cameron,  oddly  enough,  even  while 
his  arms  were  around  her ;  of  the  difference  in  the  two  men. 
Louis,  big,  crouching,  suppliant  and  insistent ;  Willy  Cameron, 
grave,  reserved  and  steady,  taking  what  she  now  knew  was 
the  blow  of  her  engagement  like  a  gentleman  and  a  soldier. 

They  represented,  although  she  did  not  know  it,  the  two 
divisions  of  men  in  love,  the  men  who  offer  much  and  give 
little,  the  others  who,  out  of  a  deep  humility,  offer  little  and 
give  everything  they  have. 

In  the  end  nothing  was  settled.  After  he  had  gone  Lily 
went  up  to  Elinor's  room.  She  had  found  in  Elinor  lately  a 
sort  of  nervous  tension  that  puzzled  her,  and  that  tension  al 
most  snapped  when  Lily  told  her  of  her  visit  home,  and  of  her 
determination  to  marry  Louis  within  the  next  few  days.  Elinor 
had  dropped  her  sewing  and  clenched  her  hands  in  her  lap. 

"Not  soon,  Lily !"  she  said.  "Oh,  not  soon.  Wait  a  little — 
wait  two  months." 

"Two  months?"  Lily  said  wonderingly.  "Why  two 
months  ?" 

"Because,  at  the  end  of  two  months,  nothing  would  make 
you  marry  him,"  Elinor  said,  almost  violently.  "I  have  sat 
by  and  waited,  because  I  thought  you  would  surely  see  your 
mistake.  But  now — Lily,  do  you  envy  me  my  life?" 

"No,"  Lily  said  truthfully ;  "but  you  love  him." 

Elinor  sat,  her  eyes  downcast  and  brooding, 

"You  are  different,"  she  said  finally.  "You  will  break, 
where  I  have  only  bent." 


252 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

But  she  said  no  more  about  a  delay.  She  had  been  passive 
rtoo  long  to  be  able  to  take  any  strong  initiative  now.  And  all 
her  moral  and  physical  courage  she  was  saving  for  a  great 
emergency. 

Cardew  Way  was  far  from  the  center  of  town,  and  Lily 
Knew  nothing  of  the  bomb  outrages  of  that  night. 

When  she  went  clown  to  breakfast  the  next  morning  she 
found  Jim  Doyle  pacing  the  floor  of  the  dining  room  in  a 
frenzy  of  rage,  a  newspaper  clenched  in  his  hand.  By  the 
window  stood  Elinor,  very  pale  and  with  slightly  reddened 
eyes.  They  had  not  heard  her,  and  Doyle  continued  a  furious 
harangue. 

"The  fools!"  he  said.  "Damn  such  material  as  I  have 
to  work  with!  This  isn't  the  time,  and  they  know  it.  I've 
warned  them  over  and  over.  The  fools !" 

Elinor  saw  her  then,  and  made  a  gesture  of  warning.  But 
it  was  too  late.  Lily  had  a  certain  quality  of  directness,  and 
it  did  not  occur  to  her  to  dissemble. 

"Is  anything  wrong?"  she  asked,  and  went  at  once  to  Elinor. 
She  had  once  or  twice  before  this  stood  between  them  for 
Elinor's  protection. 

"Everything  is  as  happy  as  a  May  morning,"  Doyle  sneered. 
"Your  Aunt  Elinor  has  an  unpleasant  habit  of  weeping  for 
joy." 

Lily  stiffened,  but  Elinor  touched  her  arm. 

"Sit  down  and  eat  your  breakfast,  Lily,"  she  said,  and  left 
the  room. 

Doyle  stood  staring  at  Lily  angrily.  He  did  not  know  how 
much  she  had  heard,  how  much  she  knew.  At  the  moment 
he  did  not  care.  He  had  a  reckless  impulse  to  tell  her  the 
truth,  but  his  habitual  caution  prevailed.  He  forced  a  cold 
smile. 

"Don't  bother  your  pretty  head  about  politics,"  he  said. 

Lily  was  equally  cold.  Her  dislike  of  him  had  been  growing 
for  weeks,  coupled  to  a  new  and  strange  distrust. 

"Politics  ?    You  seem  to  take  your  politics  very  hard." 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 253 

"I  do,"  he  said  urbanely.  ''Particularly  when  I  am  fighting 
!my  wife's  family.  May  I  pour  you  some  coffee?" 

And  pour  it  he  did.  eyeing  her  furtively  the  while,  and 
.brought  it  to  her. 

"May  I  give  you  a  word  of  advice,  Lily?"  he  said.  ''Don't 
treat  your  husband  to  tears  at  breakfast — unless  you  want  to 
I  see  him  romping  off  to  some  other  woman." 

"If  hr  -eared  to  do  that  I  shouldn't  want  him  anyhow." 

"You're  a  self -sufficient  child,  aren't  you?  Well,  the  best 
of  us  do  it,  sometimes." 

He  had  successfully  changed  the  trend  of  her  thoughts,  and 
he  went  out,  carrying  the  newspaper  with  him. 

Nevertheless,  he  began  to  feel  that  her  presence  in  the  house 

was  a  menace.    With  all  her  theories  he  knew  that  a  word  of 

the  truth  would  send  her  flying,  breathless  with  outrage,  out 

:of  his  door.    He  could  quite  plainly  visualize  that  home-coming 

of  hers.     The  instant  steps  that  would  be  taken  against  him, 

;old  Anthony  on  the  wire  appealing  to  the  governor,  Howard 

i  closeted  with  the  Chief  of  Police,  an  instant  closing  of  the 

net.    And  he  was  not  ready  for  the  clash. 

No.     She  must  stay.     If  only  Elinor  would  play  the  game, 

instead  of  puling  and  mouthing!    In  the  room  across  the  hall 

where  his  desk  stood  he  paced  the  floor,  first  angrily,  then 

thoughtfully,  his  head  bent.     He  saw,  and  not  far  away  now, 

f  himself  seated  in  the  city  hall,  holding  the  city  in  the  hollow  of 

Jjhis  hand.    From  that  his  dreams  ranged  far.    He  saw  himself 

the  head,  not  of  the  nation — there  would  be  no  nation,  as  such 

— but  of  the  country.    The  very  incidents  of  the  night  before, 

blundering  as  they  were,  showed  him  the  ease  with  which  the 

new  force  could  be  applied. 

He  was  drunk  with  power. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

LILY  had  an  unexpected  visitor  that  afternoon,  in  the  per 
son  of  Pink  Denslow.  She  had  assumed  some  of  Elinor's 
cares  for  the  day,  for  Elinor  herself  had  not  been  visible  since 
breakfast.  It  soothed  the  girl  to  attend  to  small  duties,  and  she 
was  washing  and  wiping  Elinor's  small  stock  of  fine  china 
when  the  bell  rang. 

"Mr.  Denslow  is  calling,"  said  Jennie.  "I  didn't  know  if 
you'd  see  him,  so  I  said  I  didn't  know  if  you  were  in." 

Lily's  surprise  at  Pink's  visit  was  increased  when  she  saw 
him.  He  was  covered  with  plaster  dust,  even  to  the  brim  of 
his  hat,  and  his  hands  were  scratched  and  rough. 

"Pink!"  she  said.     "Why,  what  is  the  matter?" 

For  the  first  time  he  was  conscious  of  his  appearance,  and 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life  perhaps,  entirely  indifferent  to  it. 

"I've  been  digging  in  the  ruins,"  he  said.  "Is  that  man 
Doyle  in  the  house?" 

Her  color  faded.  Suddenly  she  noticed  a  certain  wildness 
about  Pink's  eyes,  and  the  hard  strained  look  of  his  mouth. 

"What  ruins,  Pink  ?"  she  managed  to-  ask. 

"All  the  ruins,"  he  said.  "You  know,  don't  you?  The  bank, 
our  bank,  and  the  club  ?" 

"No." 

It  seemed  to  her  afterwards  that  she  knew  before  he  told 
her,  saw  it  all,  a  dreadful  picture  which  had  somehow  super 
imposed  upon  it  a  vision  of  Jim  Doyle  with  the  morning  paper, 
and  the  tiling  that  this  was  not  the  time  for. 

"That's  all,"  he  finished.  "Eleven  at  the  club,  two  of  them 
my  own  fellows.  In  France,  you  know.  I  found  one  of  them 
myself,  this  morning."  He  stared  past  her,  over  her  head. 
"Killed  for  nothing,  the  way  the  Germans  terrorized  Belgium, 
Haven't  you  seen  the  papers?" 

"No."  " 

254 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 255 

"No,  they  wouldn't  let  you  see  them,  of  course.  Lily,  I  want 
you  to  leave  here.  If  you  don't,  if  you  stay  now,  you're  one 
of  them,  whether  you  believe  what  they  preach  or  not.  Don't 
you  see  that?" 

She  was  not  listening.  Her  faith  was  dying  hard,  and  the 
mental  shock  had  brought  her  dizziness  and  a  faint  nausea. 
He  stood  watching  her,  and  when  she  glanced  up  at  him  it 
seemed  to  her  that  Pink  was  hard.  Hard  and  suspicious,  and 
the  suspicion  was  fcr  her.  It  was  incredible. 

"Do  you  believe  what  they  preach?"  he  demanded.  "I've 
got  to  know,  Lily.  I've  suffered  the  tortures  of  the  damned 
all  night." 

"I  didn't  know  it  meant  this." 

"Do  you  ?"  he  repeated. 

"No.  You  ought  to  know  me  better  than  that.  But  I  don't 
believe  that  it  started  here,  Pink.  He  was  very  angry  this 
morning,  and  he  wouldn't  let  me  see  the  paper." 

"He's  behind  it  all  right,"  Pink  said  grimly.  "Maybe  he 
didn't  plant  the  bombs,  but  his  infernal  influence  did  it,  just 
the  same.  Do  you  mean  to  say  you've  lived  here  all  this  time 
and  don't  know  he  is  plotting  a  revolution  ?  What  if  he  didn't 
authorize  these  things  last  night?  He  is  only  waiting,  to 
place  a  hundred  bombs  instead  of  three.  A  thousand,  perhaps." 

"Oh,  no !" 

"We've  got  their  own  statements.  Department  of  Justice 
found  them.  The  fools,  to  think  they  can  overthrow  the  gov 
ernment  !  Can  you  imagine  men  planning  to  capture  this  city 
and  hold  it?" 

"It  wouldn't  be  possible,  Pink  ?" 

"It  isn't  possible  now,  but  they'll  make  a  try  at  it." 

There  was  a  short  pause,  with  Lily  struggling  to  understand. 
Pink's  set  face  relaxed  somewhat.  All  that  night  he  had  been 
fighting  for  his  belief  in  her. 

"I  never  dreamed  of  it,  Pink.  I  suppose  all  the  talk  I've 
heard  meant  that,  but  I  never — are  you  sure?  About  Jim 
Doyle,  I  mean." 

"We  know  he  is  behind  it.    We  haven't  got  the  goods  on  him 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 


yet,  but  we  know.     Cameron  knows.    You  ask  him  and  he'll 
tell  you." 

"Willy  Cameron?" 

"Yes.  He's  had  some  vision,  while  the  rest  of  us  -  !  He's 
got  a  lot  of  us  working  now,  Lily.  We  are  on  the  right  trail, 
too,  although  we  lost  some  records  last  night  that  put  us  back 
a  couple  of  months.  We'll  get  them,  all  right.  We'll  smash 
their  little  revolution  into  a  cocked  hat."  It  occurred  to  him, 
then,  that  this  house  was  a  poor  place  for  such  a  confidence. 
"I'll  tell  you  about  it  later.  Get  your  things  now,  and  let  me 
take  you  home." 

But  Lily's  problem  was  too  complex  for  Pink's  simple 
remedy.  She  was  stricken  with  sudden  conviction;  the  very 
mention  of  Willy  Cameron  gave  Pink's  statements  authority. 
But  to  go  like  that,  to  leave  Elinor  in  that  house,  with  all  that 
it  implied,  was  impossible.  And  there  was  her  own  private 
problem  to  dispose  of. 

"I'll  go  this  afternoon,  Pink.  I'll  promise  you  that.  But  I 
can't  go  with  you  now.  I  can't.  You'll  have  to  take  my  word, 
that's  all.  And  you  must  believe  I  didn't  know." 

"Of  course  you  didn't  know,"  he  said,  sturdily.  "But  I  hate 
like  thunder  to  go  and  leave  you  here."  He  picked  up  his 
hat,  reluctantly.  "If  I  can  do  anything  -  " 

Lily's  mind  was  working  more  clearly  now.  This  was  the 
thing  Louis  Akers  had  been  concerned  with,  then,  a  revolution 
against  his  country.  But  it  was  the  thing,  too,  that  he  had 
promised  to  abandon.  He  was  not  a  killer.  She  knew  him  well, 
and  he  was  not  a  killer.  He  had  got  to  a  certain  point,  and  then  < 
the  thing  had  sickened  him.  Even  without  her  he  would  never 
have  gone  through  with  it.  But  it  would  be  necessary  now  to- 
get  his  information  quickly.  Very  quickly. 

"Suppose,"  she  said,  hesitatingly,  "suppose  I  tell  you  that  Ii 
think  I  am  going  to  be  able  to  help  you  before  long?" 

"Help  ?    I  want  you  safe.    This  is  not  work  for  women." 

"But  suppose  I  can  bring  you  a  very  valuable  ally?"  shee 
persisted.  "Some  one  who  knows  all  about  certain  plans,  and 
has  changed  his  views  about  them?" 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 257 

"One  of  them?" 

"He  has  been." 

"Is  he  selling  his  information?" 

"In  a  way,  yes,"  said  Lily,  slowly. 

"  'Ware  the  fellow  who  sells  information,"  Pink  said.  "But 
we'll  be  glad  to  have  it.  We  need  it,  God  knows.  And — you'll 
leave?" 

"I  couldn't  stay,  could  I?" 

He  kissed  her  hand  when  he  went  away,  doing  it  awkwardly 
and  self-consciously,  but  withal  reverently.  She  wondered, 
rather  dully,  why  she  could  not  love  Pink.  A  woman  would 
be  so  safe  with  him,  so  sure. 

She  had  not  even  then  gathered  the  full  force  of  what  he  had 
told  her.  But  little  by  little  things  came  back  to  her ;  the  man 
on  guard  in  the  garden;  the  incident  of  the  locked  kitchen 
door;  Jim  Doyle  once  talking  angrily  over  a  telephone  in  his 
study,  although  no  telephone,  so  far  as  she  knew,  was  installed 
in  the  room ;  his  recent  mysterious  absences,  and  the  increasing 
visits  of  the  hateful  Woslosky. 

She  went  back  to  Louis.  This  was  what  he  had  meant.  He 
had  known  all  along,  and  plotted  with  them ;  even  if  his  stom 
ach  had  turned  now,  he  had  been  a  party  to  this  infamy.  Even 
then  she  did  not  hate  him;  she  saw  him,  misled  as  she  had 
been  by  Doyle's  high-sounding  phrases,  lured  on  by  one  of 
those  wild  dreams  of  empire  to  which  men  were  sometimes 
given.  She  did  not  love  him  any  more ;  she  was  sorry  for  him. 

She  saw  her  position  with  the  utmost  clearness.  To  go 
home  was  to  abandon  him,  to  lose  him  for  those  who  needed 
what  he  could  give,  to  send  him  back  to  the  enemy.  She  had 
told  Pink  she  could  secure  an  ally  for  a  price,  and  she  was  the 
price.  There  was  not  an  ounce  of  melodrama  in  her,  as  she 
stood  facing  the  situation.  She  considered,  quite  simply,  that 
she  had  assumed  an  obligation  which  she  must  carry  out.  Per 
haps  her  pride  was  dictating  to  her  also.  To  go  crawling  home, 
bowed  to  the  dust,  to  admit  that  life  had  beaten  her,  to  face 
old  Anthony's  sneers  and  her  mother's  pity — that  was  hard  for 
any  Cardew. 


258 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

She  remembered  Elinor's  home-comings  of  years  ago,  the- 
strained  air  of  the  household,  the  whispering  servants,  and; 
Elinor  herself  shut  away,  or  making  her  rare,  almost  furtive 
visits  downstairs  when  her  father  was  out  of  the  house. 

No,  she  could  not  face  that. 

Her  own  willfulness  had  brought  her  to  this  pass ;  she  faced ', 
that  uncompromisingly.  She  would  marry  Louis,  and  hold  him.! 
to  his  promise,  and  so  perhaps  out  of  all  this  misery  some 
good  would  come.  But  at  the  thought  of  marriage  she  found : 
herself  trembling  violently.  With  no  love  and  no  real  respect 
to  build  on,  with  an  intuitive  knowledge  of  the  man's  primitive 
violences,  the  reluctance  toward  marriage  with  him  which  she 
had  always  felt  crystallized  into  something  very  close  to  dread. 

But  a  few  minutes  later  she  went  upstairs,  quite  steady  again, 
and  fully  determined.  At  Elinor's  door  she  tapped  lightly, 
and  she  heard  movements  within.  Then  Elinor  opened  the 
door  wide.  She  had  been  lying  on  her  bed,  and  automatically 
after  closing  the  door  she  began  to  smooth  it.  Lily  felt  a  wave 
of  intense  pity  for  her. 

"I  wish  you  would  go  away  from  here,  Aunt  Elinor/'  she 
said. 

Elinor  glanced  up,  without  surprise. 

"Where  could  I  go?" 

"If  you  left  him  definitely,  you  could  go  home." 

Elinor  shook  her  head,  dumbly,  and  her  passivity  drove  Lily 
suddenly  to  desperation. 

"You  know  what  is  going  on/'  she  said,  her  voice  strained. 
"You  don't  believe  it  is  right ;  you  know  it  is  wicked.  Clothe  it 
in  all  the  fine  language  in  the  world,  Aunt  Elinor,  and  it  is 
still  wicked.  If  you  stay  here  you  condone  it.  I  won't.  I  am 
going  away." 

"I  wish  you  had  never  come,  Lily." 

"It's  too  late  for  that,"  Lily  said,  stonily.  "But  it  is  not  too 
late  for  you  to  get  away." 

"I  shall  stay,"  Elinor  said,  with  an  air  of  finality.  But  Lily 
made  one  more  effort, 

"He  is  killing  you." 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 259 

"No,  he  is  killing  himself."  Suddenly  Elinor  flared  into  a 
passionate  outburst.  "Don't  you  think  I  know  where  all  this 
is  leading  ?  Do  you  believe  for  a  moment  that  I  think  all  this 
can  lead  to  anything  but  death?  It  is  a  madness,  Lily;  they 
are  all  mad,  these  men.  Don't  you  know  that  I  have  talked 
and  argued  and  prayed,  against  it?" 

"Then  come  away.  You  have  done  all  you  could,  and  you 
have  failed,  haven't  you?" 

"It  is  not  time  for  me  to  go/'  Elinor  said.  And  Lily, 
puzzled  and  baffled,  found  herself  again  looking  into  Elinor's 
quiet,  inscrutable  eyes. 

Elinor  had  taken  it  for  granted  that  the  girl  was  going  home, 
and  together  they  packed  almost  in  silence.  Once  Elinor 
looked  up  from  folding  a  garment,  and  said : 

"You  said  you  had  not  understood  before,  but  that  now 
you  do.  What  did  you  mean?" 

"Pink  Denslow  was  here." 

"What  does  he  know?" 

"Do  you  think  I  ought  to  tell  you,  Aunt  Elinor?  It  isn't 
that  I  don't  trust  you.  You  must  believe  that,  but  don't  you 
see  that  so  long  as  you  stay  here — he  said  that  to  me — you  are 
one  of  them." 

Elinor  resumed  her  folding. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  I  am  one  of  them,"  she  said  quietly.  "And 
you  are  right.  You  must  not  tell  me  anything.  Pink  is  Henry 
Denslow's  son,  I  suppose." 

"Yes." 

"Do  they— still  live  in  the  old  house?" 

"Yes." 

Elinor  continued  her  methodical  work. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

\T71LLY  CAMERON  was  free  that  evening.  Although 
W  he  had  not  slept  at  all  the  night  before,  he  felt  sin 
gularly  awake  and  active.  The  Committee  had  made  tem 
porary  quarters  of  his  small  back  room  at  the  pharmacy, 
and  there  had  sat  in  rather  depressed  conclave  during  a 
part  of  the  afternoon.  Pink  Denslow  had  come  in  late, 
and  had  remained,  silent  and  haggard,  through  the  debate. 

There  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  start  again  in  an  attempt 
to  get  files  and  card  indexes.  Greater  secrecy  was  to  be 
preserved  and  enjoined,  the  location  of  the  office  to  be 
known  only  to  a  small  inner  circle,  and  careful  policing 
of  it  and  of  the  building  which  housed  it  to  be  established. 
As  a  further  safeguard,  two  duplicate  files  would  be  kept  in 
other  places.  The  Committee  groaned  over  its  own  under 
estimate  of  the  knowledge  of  the  radicals. 

The  two  buildings  chosen  for  destruction  were,  respectively, 
the  bank  building  where  their  file  was  kept,  and  the  club, 
where  nine-tenths  of  the  officers  of  the  Committee  were  mem 
bers.  The  significance  of  the  double  outrage  was  unques 
tionable. 

When  the  meeting  broke  up  Pink  remained  behind.  He 
found  it  rather  difficult  to  broach  the  matter  in  his  mind.  It 
was  always  hard  for  him  to  talk  about  Lily  Cardew,  and 
lately  he  had  had  a  growing  conviction  that  Willy  Cam 
eron  found  it  equally  difficult.  He  wondered  if  Cameron, 
too,  was  in  love  with  Lily.  There  had  been  a  queer  look  in 
his  face  on  those  rare  occasions  when  Pink  had  mentioned 
her,  a  sort  of  exaltation,  and  an  odd  difficulty  afterwards  in 
getting  back  to  the  subject  in  hand. 

Pink  had  developed  an  enormous  affection  and  admiration 
for  Willy  Cameron,  a  strange,  loyal,  half  wistful,  totally  un 
selfish  devotion.  It  had  steadied  him,  when  the  loss  of  Lily 

260 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 261 

might  have  made  him  reckless,  and  had  taken  the  form  in 
recent  weeks  of  finding  innumerable  business  opportunities, 
which  Willy  Cameron  cheerfully  refused  to  take. 

"I'll  stay  here  until  this  other  thing  is  settled,"  was  Willy's 
invariable  answer.  "I  have  a  certain  amount  of  time  here, 
and  the  fellows  can  drop  in  to  see  me  without  causing  sus 
picion.  In  an  office  it  would  be  different.  And  besides,  I 
can't  throw  Mr.  Davis  down.  His  wife  is  in  bad  shape." 

So,  that  afternoon,  Pink  waited  until  the  Committee  had 
dispersed,  and  then  said,  with  some  difficulty : 

"I  saw  her,  Cameron.    She  has  promised  to  leave." 

"To-day?" 

''This  afternoon.  I  wanted  to  take  her  away,  but  she  had 
some  things  to  do." 

"Then  she  hadn't  known  before?" 

"No.  She  thought  it  was  just  talk.  And  they'd  kept  the 
papers  from  her.  She  hadn't  heard  about  last  night.  -Well, 
that's  all.  I  thought  you'd  want  to  know." 

Pink  started  out,  but  Willy  Cameron  called  him  back. 

"Have  any  of  your  people  any  influence  with  the  Cardews?" 

"'No  one  has  any  influence  with  the  Cardews,  if  you  mean 
the  Cardew  men.  Why?" 

"Because  Cardew  has  got  to  get  out  of  the  mayoralty  cam 
paign.  That's  all." 

"That's  a-plenty,"  said  Pink,  grinning.  "Why  don't  you 
go  and  tell  him  so?" 

"I'm  thinking  of  it.  He  hasn't  a  chance  in  the  world,  but 
he'll  defeat  Hendricks  by  splitting  the  vote,  and  let  the  other 
side  in.  And  you  know  what  that  means." 

"I  know  it,"  Pink  observed,  ''but  Mr.  Cardew  doesn't,  and 
he  won't  after  you've  told  him.  They've  put  a  lot  of  money 
in,  and  once  a  Cardew  has  invested  in  a  thing  he  holds  on 
like  death.  Especially  the  old  man.  Wouldn't  wonder  he 
was  the  fellow  who  pounded  the  daylights  out  of  Akers  last 
night,"  he  added. 

Willy  Cameron,  having  carefully  filled  his  pipe,  closed  the 
door  into  the  shop,  and  opened  a  window. 


262 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

"Akers?"  he  inquired. 

"Noon  edition  has  it,"  Pink  said.  "Claims  to  have  been 
attacked  in  his  rooms  by  two  masked  men.  Probably  wouldn't 
have  told  it,  but  the  doctor  talked.  Looks  as  though  he  could 
wallop  six  masked  men.  doesn't  he  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Willy  Cameron,  reflectively.  "Yes;  he  does, 
rather/' 

He  felt  more  hopeful  than  he  had  for  days.  Lily  on  her 
way  home,  clear  once  more  of  the  poisonous  atmosphere  of 
Doyle  and  his  associates;  Akers  temporarily  out  of  the  way, 
perhaps  for  long  enough  to  let  the  normal  influences  of  her 
home  life  show  him  to  her  in  a  real  perspective;  and  a 
rather  unholy  but  very  human  joy  that  he  had  given  Akers 
a  part  of  what  was  coming  to  him — all  united  to  cheer  him. 
He  saw  Lily  going  home,  and  a  great  wave  of  tenderness 
flooded  him.  If  only  they  would  be  tactful  and  careful,  if 
only  they  would  be  understanding  and  kind.  If  they  would 
only  be  normal  and  every-day,  and  accept  her  as  though  she 
had  never  been  away.  These  people  were  so  hedged  about 
with  conventions  and  restrictions,  they  put  so  much  emphasis 
on  the  letter  and  so  little  on  the  spirit.  If  only — God,  if 
only  they  wouldn't  patronize  her ! 

His  mother  would  have  known  how  to  receive  her.  He  felt, 
that  afternoon,  a  real  homesickness  for  his  mother.  He  saw 
her,  ample  and  comfortable  and  sane,  so  busy  with  the  com 
forts  of  the  body  that  she  seemed  to  ignore  the  soul,  and  yet 
bringing  healing  with  her  every  matter-of-fact  movement. 

If  only  Lily  could  have  gone  back  to  her,  instead  of  to  that 
great  house,  full  of  curious  eyes  and  whispering  voices. 

He  saw  Mr.  Hendricks  that  evening  on  his  way  home  to 
aupper.  Mr.  Hendricks  had  lost  flesh  and  some  of  his  buoy 
ancy,  but  he  was  persistently  optimistic. 

''Up  to  last  night  I'd  have  said  we  were  done,  son/'  he; 
observed.  "'But  this  bomb  business  has  settled  them.  The 
labor  vote'fl  split  on  it,  sure  as  whooping  cough." 

"They've  bought  a  half -page  in  all  the  morning  papers,  dis- 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 263 

claiming  all  responsibility  and  calling  on  all  citizens  to  help 
them  in  protecting  private  property." 

"Have  they,  now,"  said  Hendricks,  with  grudging  admira 
tion.  "Can  you  beat  that?  Where  do  they  get  the  money, 
anyhow?  If  I  lost  my  watch  these  days  I'd  have  to  clo  some 
high-finance  before  I'd  be  able  to  advertise  for  it." 

"All  right,  see  Cardew,"  were  his  parting  words.  "But 
he  doesn't  want  this  election  any  more  than  I  want  my  right 
leg.  He'll  stick.  You  can  talk,  Cameron,  I'll  say  it.  But 
you  can't  pry  him  off  with  kind  words,  any  more  than  you 
can  a  porous  plaster." 

Behind  Mr.  Hendricks'  colloquialisms  there  was  something 
sturdy  and  fine.  His  very  vernacular  made  him  popular;  his 
honesty  was  beyond  suspicion.  If  he  belonged  to  the  old 
school  in  politics,  he  had  most  of  its  virtues  and  few  of  its 
vices.  He  would  take  care  of  his  friends,  undoubtedly,  but 
he  was  careful  in  his  choice  of  friends.  He  would  make  the 
city  a  good  place  to  live  in.  Like  Willy  Cameron,  he  saw  it, 
not  a  center  of  trade  so  much  as  a  vast  settlement  of  homes. 
Business  supported  the  city  in  his  mind,  not  the  city  business. 

Nevertheless  the  situation  was  serious,  and  it  was  with 
a  sense  of  a  desperate  remedy  for  a  desperate  disease  that 
Willy  Cameron,  after  a  careful  toilet,  rang  the  bell  of  the 
Cardew  house  that  night.  He  had  no  hope  of  seeing  Lily, 
but  the  mere  thought  that  they  were  under  one  roof  gave 
him  a  sense  of  nearness  and  of  comfort  in  her  safety. 

Dinner  was  recently  over,  and  he  found  both  the  Cardews, 
father  and  son,  in  the  library  smoking.  He  had  arrived  at  a 
bad  moment,  for  the  bomb  outrage,  coming  on  top  of  Lily's 
refusal  to  come  home  under  the  given  conditions,  had  roused 
Anthony  to  a  cold  rage,  and  left  Howard  with  a  feeling  of 
helplessness. 

Anthony  Cardew  nodded  to  him  grimly,  but  Howard  shook 
hands  and  offered  him  a  chair. 

"I  heard  you  speak  some  time  ago,  Mr.  Cameron,"  he  said. 
"You  made  me  wish  I  could  have  had  your  support." 


264 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

"I  came  to  talk  about  that.  I  am  sorry  to  have  to  come  in 
the  evening,  but  I  am  not  free  at  any  other  time." 

"When  we  go  into  politics,"  said  old  Anthony  in  his  jibing 
voice,  "the  ordinary  amenities  have  to  go.  When  you  are 
elected,  Howard,  I  shall  live  somewhere  else." 

Willy  Cameron  smiled. 

"I  don't  think  you  will  be  put  to  that  inconvenience,  Mr. 
Cardew." 

"What's  that?"  Old  Anthony's  voice  was  incredulous. 
Here,  in  his  own  house,  this  whipper-snapper — 

"I  am  sure  Mr.  Howard  Cardew  realizes  he  cannot  be 
elected." 

The  small  ragged  vein  on  Anthony's  forehead  was  the  storm 
signal  for  the  family.  Howard  glanced  at  him,  and  said 
urbanely : 

"Will  you  have  a  cigar,  Mr.  Cameron  ?    Or  a  liqueur  ?" 

"Nothing,  thank  you.  If  I  can  have  a  few  minutes'  talk 
with  you " 

"If  you  mean  that  as  a  request  for  me  to  go  out,  I  will  re 
mind  you  that  I  am  heavily  interested  in  this  matter  myself," 
said  old  Anthony.  "I  have  put  in  a  great  deal  of  money.  If 
you  people  are  going  to  drop  out,  I  want  to  hear  it.  You've 
played  the  devil  with  us  already,  with  your  independent  can 
didate  who  can't  talk  English." 

Willy  Cameron  kept  his  temper. 

"No,"  he  said,  slowly.  "It  wasn't  a  question  of  Mr.  Hen- 
dricks  withdrawing.  It  was  a  question  of  Mr.  Cardew  getting 
out." 

Sheer  astonishment  held  old  Anthony  speechless. 

"It's  like  this,"  Willy  Cameron  said.  "Your  son  knows  it. 
Even  if  we  drop  out  he  won't  get  it.  Justly  or  unjustly — 
and  I  mean  that — nobody  with  the  name  of  Cardew  can  be 
elected  to  any  high  office  in  this  city.  There's  no  reflection 
on  anybody  in  my  saying  that.  I  am  telling  you  a  fact." 

Howard  had  listened  attentively  and  without  anger. 

"For  a  long  time,  Mr.  Cameron,"  he  said,  "I  have  been 
urging  men  of — of  position  in  the  city,  to  go  into  politics. 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 265 

We  have  needed  to  get  away  from  the  professional  politician. 
I  went  in,  without  much  hope  of  election,  to — well,  you  can 
say  to  blaze  a  trail.  It  is  not  being  elected  that  counts  with 
me,  so  much  as  to  show  my  willingness  to  serve." 

Old  Anthony  recovered  his  voice. 

"The  Cardews  made  this  town,  sir,"  he  barked.  "Willing 
ness  to  serve,  piffle!  We  need  a  business  man  to  run  the 
city,  and  by  God,  we'll  get  it!" 

"You'll  get  an  anarchist,"  said  Willy  Cameron,  slightly 
flushed. 

"If  you  want  my  opinion,  young  man,  this  is  a  trick,  a  politi 
cal  trick.  And  how  do  we  know  that  your  Vigilance  Com 
mittee  isn't  a  trick,  too?  You  try  to  tell  us  that  there  is  an 
organized  movement  here  to  do  heaven  knows  what,  and  by 
sheer  terror  you  build  up  a  machine  which  appeals  to  the 
public  imagination.  You  don't  say  anything  about  votes,  but 
you  see  that  they  vote  for  your  man.  Isn't  that  true  ?" 

"Yes.  If  they  can  keep  an  anarchist  out  of  office.  Akers 
is  an  anarchist.  He  calls  himself  something  else,  but  that's 
what  it  amounts  to.  And  those  bombs  last  night  were  not 
imaginary." 

The  introduction  of  Louis  Akers'  name  had  a  sobering 
effect  on  Anthony  Cardew.  After  all,  more  than  anything 
else,  he  wanted  Akers  defeated.  The  discussion  slowly  lost 
its  acrimony,  and  ended,  oddly  enough,  in  Willy  Cameron  and 
Anthony  Cardew  virtually  uniting  against  Howard.  What 
Willy  Cameron  told  about  Jim  Doyle  fed  the  old  man's  hatred 
of  his  daughter's  husband,  and  there  was  something  very 
convincing  about  Cameron  himself.  Something  of  fearless 
ness  and  honesty  that  began,  slowly,  to  dispose  Anthony  in 
his  favor. 

It  was  Howard  who  held  out. 

"If  I  quit  now  it  will  look  as  though  I  didn't  want  to  take 
a  licking,"  he  said,  quietly  obstinate.  "Grant  your  point,  that 
I'm  defeated.  All  right,  I'll  be  defeated — but  I  won't  quit." 

And  Anthony  Cardew,  confronted  by  that  very  -quality  of 
obstinacy  which  had  been  his  own  weapon  for  so  many  years, 


266 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

retired  in  high  dudgeon  to  his  upper  rooms.  He  was  living 
in  a  strange  new  world,  a  reasonable  soul  on  an  unreasonable 
earth,  an  earth  where  a  man's  last  sanctuary,  his  club,  was 
blown  up  about  him,  and  a  man's  family  apparently  lived 
only  to  thwart  him. 

With  Anthony  gone,  Howard  dropped  the  discussion  with 
the  air  of  a  man  who  has  made  a  final  stand. 

"What  you  have  said  about  Mr.  Doyle  interests  me  greatly," 
he  observed,  "because — you  probably  do  not  know  this — my 
sister  married  him  some  years  ago.  It  was  a  most  unhappy 
affair." 

*'I  do  know  it.  For  that  reason  I  am  glad  that  Miss  Lily 
has  come  home." 

"Has  come  home?  She  has  not  come  home,  Mr.  Cameron. 
There  was  a  condition  we  felt  forced  to  make,  and  she  refused 
to  agree  to  it.  Perhaps  we  were  wrong.  I " 

Willy  Cameron  got  up. 

"Was  that  to-day?"  he  asked. 

"No." 

"But  she  was  coming  home  to-day.  She  was  to  leave  there 
this  afternoon." 

"How  do  you  know  that  ?" 

"Denslow  saw  her  there  this  afternoon.  She  agreed  to 
leave  at  once.  He  had  told  her  of  the  bombs,  and  of  other 
things.  She  hadn't  understood  before,  and  she  was  horrified. 
It  is  just  possible  Doyle  wouldn't  let  her  go." 

"But — that's  ridiculous.  She  can't  be  a  prisoner  in  my 
sister's  house." 

"Will  you  telephone  and  find  out  if  she  is  there?" 

Howard  went  to  the  telephone  at  once.  It  seemed  to  Willy 
Cameron  that  he  stood  there  for  uncounted  years,  and  as 
though,  through  all  that  eternity  of  waiting,  he  knew  what 
the  answer  would  be.  And  that  he  knew,  too,  what  that  an 
swer  meant,  where  she  had  gone,  what  she  had  done.  If  only 
she  had  come  to  him.  If  only  she  had  come  to  him.  He 
would  have  saved  her  from  herself.  He — 

"She  is  not  there,"  Howard  Cardew  said,  in  a  voice  from 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 267 

which  all  life  had  gone.  "She  left  this  afternoon,  at  four 
o'clock.  Of  course  she  has  friends.  Or  she  may  have  gone 
to  a  hotel.  We  had  managed  to  make  it  practically  impossible 
for  her  to  come  home." 

Willy  Cameron  glanced  at  his  watch.  He  had  discounted 
the  worst  before  it  came,  and  unlike  the  older  man,  was  ready 
for  action.  It  was  he  who  took  hold  of  the  situation. 

"Order  a  car,  Mr.  Cardew,  and  go  to  the  hotels,"  he  said. 
"And  if  you  will  drop  me  downtown — I'll  tell  you  where— 
I'll  follow  up  something  that  has  just  occurred  to  me." 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

IN  one  way  Howard  had  been  correct  in  his  surmise.  It 
had  been  Lily's  idea  to  go  to  a  hotel  until  she  had  made 
some  definite  plan.  She  would  telephone  Louis  then,  and  the 
rest — she  did  not  think  beyond  that.  She  called  a  taxi  and 
took  a  small  bag  with  her,  but  in  the  taxicab  she  suddenly 
realized  that  she  could  not  go  to  any  of  the  hotels  she  knew. 
She  would  be  recognized  at  once. 

She  wanted  a  little  time  to  herself,  time  to  think.  And  be 
fore  it  was  discovered  that  she  had  left  Cardew  Way  she 
must  see  Louis,  and  judge  again  if  he  intended  to  act  in 
good  faith.  While  he  was  with  her,  reiterating  his  promises, 
she  believed  him,  but  when  he  was  gone,  she  always  felt,  a 
curious  doubt. 

She  thought  then  of  finding  a  quiet  room  somewhere,  and 
stopping  the  cab,  bought  a  newspaper.  It  was  when  she  was 
searching  for  the  "rooms  for  rent"  column  that  she  saw  he 
had  been  attacked  and  slightly  injured. 

They  had  got  him.  He  had  said  that  if  they  ever  suspected 
him  of  playing  them  false  they  would  get  him,  and  now  they 
had  done  so.  That  removed  the  last  doubt  of  his  good  faith 
from  her  mind.  She  felt  indignation  and  dismay,  *and  a  sort 
of  aching  consciousness  that  always  she  brought  only  trouble 
to  the  people  who  cared  for  her;  she  felt  that  she  was  going 
through  her  life,  leaving  only  unhappiness  behind  her. 

He  had  suffered,  and  for  her. 

She  told  the  chauffeur  to  go  to  the  Benedict  Apartments, 
and  sitting  back  read  the  notice  again.  He  had  been  attacked 
by  two  masked  men  and  badly  bruised,  after  putting  up  a 
terrific  resistance.  They  would  wear  masks,  of  course.  They 
loved  the  theatrical.  Their  very  flag  was  theatrical.  And  he 
had  made  a  hard  fight  That  was  like  him,  too;  he  was  a 
fighter. 

268 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 269 

She  was  a  Cardew,  and  she  loved  strength.  There  were 
other  men,  men  like  Willy  Cameron,  for  instance,  who  were 
lovable  in  many  ways,  but  they  were  not  fighters.  They  sat 
back,  and  let  life  beat  them,  and  they  took  the  hurt  bravely 
and  stoically.  But  they  never  got  life  by  the  throat  and 
shook  it  until  it  gave  up  what  they  wanted. 

She  had  never  been  in  a  bachelors'  apartment  house  be 
fore,  and  she  was  both  frightened  and  self-conscious.  The 
girl  at  the  desk  eyed  her  curiously  while  she  telephoned  her 
message,  and  watched  her  as  she  moved  toward  the  elevator. 

"Ever  seen  her  before?"  she  said  to  the  hall  boy. 

"No.     She's  a  new  one." 

"Face's  kind  of  familiar  to  me,"  said  the  telephone  girl, 
reflectively.  "Looks  worried,  doesn't  she  ?  Two  masked  men ! 
Huh !  All  Sam  took  up  there  last  night  was  a  thin  fellow  with 
a  limp." 

The  hall  boy  grinned. 

"Then  his  limp  didn't  bother  him  any.  Sam  says  y'ought 
to  seen  that  place." 

In  the  meantime,  outside  the  door  of  Akers'  apartment, 
Lily's  fine  courage  almost  left  her.  Had  it  not  been  for  the 
eyes  of  the  elevator  man,  fixed  on  her  while  he  lounged  in  his 
gateway,  she  might  have  gone  away,  even  then.  But  she 
stood  there,  committed  to  a  course  of  action,  and  rang. 

Louis  himself  admitted  her,  an  oddly  battered  Louis,  in  a 
dressing  gown  and  slippers ;  an  oddly  watchful  Louis,  too,  wait 
ing,  after  the  manner  of  men  of  his  kind  the  world  over,  to 
see  which  way  the  cat  would  jump.  He  had  had  a  bad  day, 
and  his  nerves  were  on  edge.  All  day  he  had  sat  there,  un 
able  to  go  out,  and  had  wondered  just  when  Cameron  would 
see  her  and  tell  her  about  Edith  Boyd.  For,  just  as  Willy 
Cameron  rushed  him  for  the  first  time,  there  had  been  some 
thing  from  between  clenched  teeth  about  marrying  another 
girl,  under  the  given  circumstances.  Only  that  had  not  been 
the  sort  of  language  in  which  it  was  delivered. 

"I  just  saw  about  it  in  the  newspaper,"  Lily  said.  "How 
dreadful,  Louis." 


27Q A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

He  straightened  himself  and  drew  a  deep  breath.  The  game 
was  still  his,  if  he  played  it  right. 

"Bad  enough,  dear,"  he  said,  "but  I  gave  them  some  trouble, 
too."  He  pushed  a  chair  toward  her.  "It  was  like  you  to 
come.  But  I  don't  like  your  seeing  me  all  mussed  up,  little 
girl." 

He  made  a  move  then  to  kiss  her,  but  she  drew  back. 

"Please!"  she  said.  "Not  here.  And  I  can't  sit  down.  I 
can't  stay.  I  only  came  because  I  wanted  to  tell  you  something1 
and  I  didn't  want  to  telephone  it.  Louis,  Jim  Doyle  knew  about 
those  bombs  last  night.  He  didn't  want  it  to  happen  before 
the  election,  but — that  doesn't  alter  the  fact,  does  it?" 

"How  do  you  know  he  knew?" 

"I  do  know.    That's  all.    And  I  have  left  Aunt  Elinor's/1 

"No!" 

"I  couldn't  stay,  could  I?"  She  looked  up  at  him,  the 
little  wistful  glance  that  Willy  always  found  so  infinitely 
touching,  like  the  appeal  of  a  willful  but  lovable  child,  that 
has  somehow  got  into  trouble.  "And  I  can't  go  home,  Louis, 
unless  I " 

"Unless  you  give  me  up,"  he  finished  for  her.    "Well  ?" 

She  hesitated.  She  hated  making  terms  with  him,  and  yet 
somehow  she  must  make  terms. 

"Well  ?"  he  repeated.    "Are  you  going  to  throw  me  over  ?' 

Apparently  merely  putting  the  thought  into  words  crystal 
lized  all  his  fears  of  the  past  hours ;  seeing  her  there,  too,  had 
intensified  his  want  of  her.  She  stood  there,  where  he  had 
so  often  dreamed  of  seeing  her,  but  still  holding  him  off  with 
the  aloofness  that  both  chilled  and  inflamed  him,  and  with  a 
question  in  her  eyes.  He  held  out  his  arms,  but  she  drew  back. 

"Do  you  mean  what  you  have  said,  Louis,  about  leaving 
them,  if  I  marry  you,  and  doing  all  you  can  to  stop  them?" 

"You  know  I  mean  it." 

"Then— I'll  not  go  home." 

"You  are  going  to  marry  me?    Now?" 

"Whenever  you  say." 

Suddenly  she  was  trembling  violently,  and  her  Ep®  felt  dry 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 271 

and  stiff.    He  pushed  her  into  a  chair,  and  knelt  down  beside 
her. 

"You  poor  little  kid,"  he  said,  softly. 

Through  his  brain  were  racing  a  hundred  thoughts;  Lily 
his,  in  his  arms,  in  spite  of  that  white-faced  drug  clerk  with 
the  cold  eyes ;  himself  in  the  Cardew  house,  one  of  them,  beat 
ing  old  Anthony  Cardew  at  his  own  cynical  game;  and  per 
sistently  held  back  and  often  rising  again  to  the  surface,  Wos- 
losky  and  Doyle  and  the  others,  killers  that  they  were,  pursuing 
him  with  their  vengeance  over  the  world.  They  would  have 
to  be  counted  in ;  they  were  his  price,  as  he,  had  he  known  it, 
was  Lily's. 

"My  wife!"  he  said.    "My  wife/' 
_She  stiffened  in  his  arms. 

"I  must  go,  Louis,"  she  said.  "I  can't  stay  here.  I  felt 
very  queer  downstairs.  They  all  stared  so." 

There  was  a  clock  on  the  mantel  shelf,  and  he  looked  at  it. 
It  was  a  quarter  before  five. 

"One  thing  is  sure,  Lily,"  he  said.  "You  can't  wander  about 
alone,  and  you  are  right — you  can't  stay  here.  They  prob 
ably  recognized  you  downstairs.  You  are  pretty  well  known." 

For  the  first  time  it  occurred  to  her  that  she  had  com 
promised  herself,  and  that  the  net,  of  her  own  making,  was 
closing  fast  about  her. 

"I  wish  I  hadn't  come." 

"Why?    We  can  fix  that  all  right  in  a  jiffy." 

But  when  he  suggested  an  immediate  marriage  she  made 
a  final  struggle.  In  a  few  days,  even  to-morrow,  but  not  just 
then.  He  listened,  impatiently,  his  eyes  on  the  clock.  Beside 
it  in  the  mirror  he  saw  his  own  marred  face,  and  it  added 
to  his  anger.  In  the  end  he  took  control  of  the  situation; 
went  into  his  bedroom,  changed  into  a  coat,  and  came  out 
again,  ready  for  the  street.  He  telephoned  down  for  a  taxi- 
cab,  and  then  confronted  her,  his  face  grim. 

"I've  let  you  run  things  pretty  much  to  suit  yourself,  Lily," 
he  said.  "Now  I'm  in  charge.  It  won't  be  to-morrow  or  next 
week  or  next  month,  It  will  be  now.  You're  here.  You've 


272 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

given  them  a  chance  to  talk  downstairs.  You've  nowhere  to 
go,  and  you're  going  to  marry  me  at  once." 

In  the  cab  he  explained  more  fully.  They  would  get  a 
license,  and  then  go  to  one  of  the  hotels.  There  they  could 
be  married,  in  their  own  suite. 

"All  regularly  and  in  order,  honey,"  he  said,  and  kissed  her 
hand.  She  had  hardly  heard.  She  was  staring  ahead,  not 
thinking,  not  listening,  not  seeing,  fighting  down  a  growing 
fear  of  the  man  before  her,  of  his  sheer  physical  proximity, 
of  his  increasing  exuberance. 

"I'm  mad  about  you,  girl,"  he  said.  "Mad.  And  now; 
you  are  going  to  be  mine,  until  death  do  us  part." 

She  shivered  and  drew  away,  and  he  laughed  a  little.  Girls 
were  like  that,  at  such  times.  They  always  took  a  step  back 
for  every  two  steps  forward.  He  let  her  hand  go,  and  took 
a  careful  survey  of  his  face  in  the  mirror  of  the  cab.  The 
swelling  had  gone  down,  but  that  bruise  below  his  eye  would 
last  for  days.  He  cursed  under  his  breath. 


It  was  after  nine  o'clock  when  one  of  the  Cardew  cars 
stopped  not  far  from  the  Benedict  Apartments,  and  Willy 
Cameron  got  out. 

He  was  quite  certain  that  Louis  Akers  would  know  where 
Lily  was,  and  he  anticipated  the  interview  with  a  sort  of  grim 
humor.  There  might  be  another  fight ;  certainly  Akers  would 
try  to  get  back  at  him  for  the  night  before.  But  he  set  his 
jaw.  He  would  learn  where  Lily  was  if  he  had  to  choke 
the  knowledge  out  of  that  leering  devil's  thick  white  throat. 

His  arrival  in  the  foyer  of  the  Benedict  Apartments  caused 
more  than  a  ripple  of  excitement. 

"Well,  look  who's  here!"  muttered  the  telephone  girl,  and 
watched  his  approach,  with  its  faint  limp,  over  the  top  of 
her  desk.  Behind,  from  his  cage,  the  elevator  man  was  star 
ing  with  avid  interest. 

"I  suppose  Mr.  Akers  is  in?"  said  Willy  Cameron,  politely. 

The  girl  smiled  up  at  him. 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 273 

"I'll  say  he  ought  to  be,  after  last  night !  What're  you  going 
to  do  now?  Kill  him?" 

In  spite  of  his  anxiety  there  was  a  faint  twinkle  in  Willy 
Cameron's  eyes. 

"No,"  he  said  slowly.  "No.  I  think  not.  I  want  to  talk 
to  him/' 

"Sam,"  called  the  telephone  girl,  "take  this  gentleman  up 
to  forty-three." 

" Forty-three's  out."  Sam  partly  shut  the  elevator  door; 
he  had  seen  Forty-three's  rooms  the  night  before,  and  he  had 
the  discretion  of  his  race.  "Went  out  with  a  lady  at  quarter 
to  five." 

Willy  Cameron  took  a  step  or  two  toward  the  cage. 

"You  don't  happen  to  be  lying,  I  suppose  ?" 

"No,  sir!"  said  Sam.  "I'll  take  you  up  to  look,  if  you  like. 
And  about  an  hour  ago  he  sent  a  boy  here  with  a  note,  to  get 
some  of  his  clothes.  The  young  lady  at  the  desk  was  out  at 
the  movies  at  the  time." 

"I  was  getting  my  supper,  Sam." 

Willy  Cameron  had  gone  very  white. 

"Did  the  boy  say  where  he  was  taking  the  things?" 

"To  the  Saint  Elmo  Hotel,  sir." 

On  the  street  again  Willy  Cameron  took  himself  fiercely  in 

hand.     There  were  a  half-dozen  reasons  why  Akers  might 

j  go  to  the  Saint  Elmo.    He  might,  for  one  thing-,  have  thought 

I  that  he,  Cameron,  would  go  back  to  the  Benedict.     He  might 

'  be  hiding  from  Dan,  or  from  reporters.    But  there  had  been, 

apparently,  no  attempt  to  keep  his  new  quarters  secret. 

If  Lily  was  at  the  Saint  Elmo — 

He  found  a  taxicab,  and  as  it  drew  up  at  the  curb  before 
the  hotel  he  saw  the  Cardew  car  moving  away.  It  gave  him 
his  first  real  breath  for  twenty  minutes.  Lily  was  not  there. 

But  Louis  Akers  was.  He  got  his  room 'number  from  a 
clerk  and  went  up,  still  determinedly  holding  on  to  himself. 
Afterwards  he  had  no  clear  recollection  of  any  interval  be 
tween  the  Benedict  and  the  moment  he  found  himself  stand 
ing  outside  a  dcor  on  an  upper  floor  of  the  Saint  Elmo.  From 


274 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

that  time  on  it  was  as  clear  as  crystal,  his  own  sudden  calm, 
the  overturning  of  a  chair  inside,  a  man's  voice,  slightly  raised, 
which  he  recognized,  and  then  the  thin  crash  of  a  wineglass 
dropped  or  thrown  to  the  floor. 

He  opened  the  door  and  went  in. 

In  the  center  of  the  sitting  room  a  table  was  set,  and  on 
it  the  remains  of  a  dinner  for  two.  Akers  was  standing  by 
the  table,  his  chair  overturned  behind  him,  a  splintered  glass 
at  his  feet,  staring  angrily  at  the  window.  Even  then  Willy 
Cameron  saw  that  he  had  had  too  much  to  drink,  and  that 
he  was  in  an  ugly  mood.  He  was  in  dinner  clothes,  but  with 
his  bruised  face  and  scowling  brows  he  looked  a  sinister  imi 
tation  of  a  gentleman. 

By  the  window,  her  back  to  the  room,  was  Lily. 

Neither  of  them  glanced  at  the  door.  Evidently  the  waiter 
had  been  moving  in  and  out,  and  Akers  considered  him  as 
little  as  he  would  a  dog. 

"Come  and  sit  down,"  he  said  angrily.  "I've  quit  drinking, 
I  tell  you.  Good  God,  just  because  I've  had  a  little  wine — 
and  I  had  the  hell  of  a  time  getting  it — you  won't  eat  and 
won't  talk.  Come  here." 

"I'm  not  hungry." 

"Come  here." 

"Stay  where  you  are,  Lily,"  said  Willy  Cameron,  from  in 
side  the  closed  door.  "Or  perhaps  you'd  better  get  your 
wraps.  I  came  to  take  you  home." 

Akers  had  wheeled  at  the  voice,  and  now  stood  staring  in 
credulously.  First  anger,  and  then  a  grin  of  triumph,  showed 
in  his  face.  Drink  had  made  him  not  so  much  drunk  as  reck 
less.  He  had  lost  last  night,  but  to-day  he  had  won. 

"Hello,  Cameron,"  he  said. 

Willy  Cameron  ignored  him. 

"Will  you  come?"  he  said  to  Lily. 

"I  can't,  Willy." 

"Listen,  Lily  dear,"  he  said  gravely.  "Your  father  is 
searching  the  city  for  you.  Do  you  know  what  that  means? 
Don't  you  see  that  you  must  go  home  at  once?  You  can't 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 275 

dine  here  in  a  private  suite,  like  this,  and  not  expose  yourself 
to  all  sorts  of  talk." 

"Go  on,"  said  Akers,  leering.    "I  like  to  hear  you." 

"Especially,"  continued  Willy  Cameron,  "with  a  man  like 
this." 

Akers  took  a  step  toward  him,  but  he  was  not  too  sure  of 
himself,  and  he  knew  now  that  the  other  man  had  a  swing 
to  his  right  arm  like  the  driving  rod  of  a  locomotive.  He 
retreated  again  to  the  table,  and  his  hand  closed  over  a  knife 
there. 

"Louis !"  Lily  said  sharply. 

He  picked  up  the  knife  and  smiled  at  her,  his  eyes  cunning. 

"Not  going  to  kill  him,  my  dear,"  he  said.  "Merely  to 
give  him  a  hint  that  I'm  not  as  easy  as  I  was  last  night." 

That  was  a  slip,  and  he  knew  it.  Lily  had  left  the  window 
and  come  forward,  a  stricken  slip  of  a  girl,  and  he  turned 
to  her  angrily. 

"Go  into  the  other  room  and  close  the  door,"  he  ordered. 
"When  I've  thrown  this  fellow  out,  you  can  come  back." 

But  Lily's  eyes  were  fixed  on  Willy  Cameron's  face. 

"It  was  you  last  night  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Why?" 

"Because,"  Willy  Cameron  said  steadily,  "he  had  got  a  girl 
into  trouble,  and  then  insulted  her.  I  wouldn't  tell  you,  but 
you've  got  to  know  the  truth  before  it's  too  late." 

Lily  threw  out  both  hands  dizzily,  as  though  catching  for 
support.  But  she  steadied  herself.  Neither  man  moved. 

"It  is  too  late,  Willy,"  she  said.    "I  have  just  married  him." 


CHAPTER  XXX 

AT  midnight  Howard  Cardew  reached  home  again,  a  tired 
and  broken  man.     Grace  had  been  lying  awake  in  her 
bedroom,  puzzled  by  his  unexplained  absence,  and  brooding, 
as  she  now  did  continually,  over  Lily's  absence. 

At  half  past  eleven  she  heard  Anthony  Cardew  come  in 
and  go  upstairs,  and  for  some  time  after  that  she  heard  him 
steadily  pacing  back  and  forth  overhead.  Sometimes  Grace 
felt  sorry  for  Anthony.  He  had  made  himself  at  such  cost, 
and  now  when  he  was  old,  he  had  everything  and  yet  nothing. 

They  had  never  understood  women,  these  Cardews.  How 
ard  was  gentle  with  them  where  Anthony  was  hard,  but  he  did 
not  understand,  either.  She  herself,  of  other  blood,  got  along 
by  making  few  demands,  but  the  Cardew  women  were  as  in 
sistent  in  their  demands  as  the  men.  Elinor,  Lily — 

She  formed  a  sudden  resolution,  and  getting  up,  dressed 
feverishly.  She  had  no  plan  in  her  mind,  nothing  but  a 
desperate  resolution  to  put  Lily's  case  before  her  grandfather, 
and  to  beg  that  she  be  brought  home  without  conditions.. 

She  was  frightened  as  she  went  up  the  stairs.  Never  be 
fore  had  she  permitted  things  to  come  to  an  issue  between 
herself  and  Anthony.  But  now  it  must  be  done.  She  knocked 
at  the  door. 

Anthony  Cardew  opened  it.  The  room  was  dark,  save  for 
one  lamp  burning  dimly  on  a  great  mahogany  table,  and 
Anthony's  erect  figure  was  little  more  than  a  blur  of  black 
and  white. 

"I  heard  you  walking  about/'  she  said  breathlessly.  "May 
I  come  in  and  talk  to  you?" 

"Come  in,"  he  said,  with  a  sort  of  grave  heaviness.  "Shall 
I  light  the  other  lamps?" 

"Please  don't." 

"Will  you  sit  down?  No?  Do  you  mind  if  I  do?  I  am 
very  tired.  I  suppose  it  is  about  Lily?" 

276 
\ 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 277 

"Yes.     I  can't  stand  it  any  longer.    I  can't." 

Sitting  under  the  lamp  she  saw  that  he  looked  very  old 
and  very  weary.  A  tired  little  old  man,  almost  a  broken 
one. 

"She  won't  come  back?" 

"Not  under  the  conditions.  But  she  must  come  back, 
father.  To  let  her  stay  on  there,  in  that  house,  after  last 
night " 

She  had  never  called  him  "father"  before.  It  seemed  to 
touch  him. 

"You're  a  good  woman,  Grace,"  he  said,  still  heavily.  "We 
Cardews  all  marry  good  women,  but  we  don't  know  how  to 

treat  them.    Even  Howard "    His  voice  trailed  off.    "No, 

she  can't  stay  there,"  he  said,  after  a  pause. 

"But — I  must  tell  you — she  refuses  to  give  up  that  man." 

"You  are  a  woman,  Grace.  You  ought  to  know  something 
about  girls.  Does  she  actually  care  for  him,  or  is  it  because 
he  offers  the  liberty  she  thinks  we  fail  to  give  her?  Or" — 
he  smiled  faintly — "is  it  Cardew  pig-headedness  ?" 

Grace  made  a  little  gesture  of  despair. 

"I  don't  know.  She  wanted  to  come  home.  She  begged — 
it  was  dreadful."  Grace  hesitated.  "Even  that  couldn't  be  as 
bad  as  this,  father,"  she  said.  "We  have  all  lived  our  own 
lives,  you  and  Howard  and  myself,  and  now  we  won't  let 
her  do  it." 

"And  a  pretty  mess  we  have  made  of  them!"  His  tone 
was  grim.  "No,  I  can't  say  that  we  offer  her  any  felicitous 
examples  But  the  fellow's  plan  is  transparent  enough.  He 
is  ambitious.  He  sees  himself  installed  here,  one  of  us.  Mark 
my  words,  Grace,  he  may  love  the  child,  but  his  real  actuating 
motive  is  that.  He's  a  Radical,  because  since  he  can't  climb  ' 
up,  he'll  pull  down.  But  once  let  him  get  his  foot  on  the 
Cardew  ladder,  and  he'll  climb,  over  her,  over  all  of  us." 

He  sat  after  that,  his  head  dropped  on  his  chest,  his  hands 
resting  on  the  arms  of  his  chair,  in  a  brooding  reverie.  Grace 
waited. 

"Better  bring  her  home,"  he  said  finally.    "Tell  her  I  sur- 


278 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

render.  I  want  her  here.  Let  her  bring  that  fellow  here,  too, 
if  she  has  to  see  him.  But  for  God's  sake,  Grace,"  he  added, 
with  a  flash  of  his  old  fire,  "show  her  some  real  men,  too." 

Suddenly  Grace  bent  over  and  kissed  him.  He  put  up  his 
hand,  and  patted  her  on  the  shoulder. 

"A  good  woman,  Grace/'  he  said,  "and  a  good  daughter  to 
me.  I'm  sorry.  I'll  try  to  do  better." 

As  Grace  straightened  she  heard  the  door  close  below, 
and  Howard's  voice.  Almost  immediately  she  heard  him 
coming  up  the  staircase,  and  going  out  into  the  hall  she  called 
softly  to  him. 

" Where  are  you?"  he  asked,  looking  up.    "Is  father  there?" 

"Yes." 

"I  want  you  both  to  come  down  to  the  library,  Grace." 

She  heard  him  turn  and  go  slowly  down  the  stairs.  His 
voice  had  been  strained  and  unnatural.  As  she  turned  she 
found  Anthony  behind  her. 

"Something  has  happened!" 

"I  rather  think  so,"  said  old  Anthony,  slowly. 

They  went  together  down  the  stairs. 

In  the  library  Lily  was  standing,  facing  the  door,  a  quiet 
figure,  listening  and  waiting.  Howard  had  dropped  into  a 
chair  and  was  staring  ahead.  And  beyond  the  circle  of  lights 
was  a  shadowy  figure,  vaguely  familiar,  tall,  thin,  and  watch 
ful.  Willy  Cameron. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

THE  discovery  that  Lily  had  left  his  house  threw  Jim 
Doyle  into  a  frenzy.     The  very  manner  of  her  going 
filled  him  with  dark  suspicion.     Either  she  had  heard  more 
that  morning  than  he  had  thought,  or — 

In  his  cunning  mind  for  weeks  there  had  been  growing 
a  smoldering  suspicion  of  his  wife.  She  was  too  quiet,  too* 
acquiescent.  In  the  beginning,  when  Woslosky  had  brought 
the  scheme  to  him,  and  had  promised  it  financial  support  from 
Europe,  he  had  taken  a  cruel  and  savage  delight  in  outlining 
it  to  her,  in  seeing  her  cringe  and  go  pale. 

He  had  not  feared  her  then.  She  had  borne  with  so  much, 
endured,  tolerated,  accepted,  that  he  had  not  realized  that 
she  might  have  a  breaking  point. 

The  plan  had  appealed  to  his  cynical  soul  from  the  first. 
It  was  the  apotheosis  of  cynicism,  this  reducing  of  a  world 
to  its  lowest  level.  And  it  had  amused  him  to  see  his  wife, 
a  gentlewoman  born,  bewildered  before  the  chaos  he  depicted. 

"But — it  is  German!"  she  had  said. 

"I  bow  before  intelligence.  It  is  German.  Also  it  is  Rus 
sian.  Also  it  is  of  all  nations.  All  this  talk  now,  of  a  League 
of  Nations,  a  few  dull  diplomats  acting  as  God  over  the  peo 
ples  of  the  earth !"  His  eyes  blazed.  "While  the  true  league, 
of  the  workers  of  the  world,  is  already  in  effect !" 

But  he  watched  her  after  that,  not  that  he  was  afraid  of 
her,  but  because  her  re-action  as  a  woman  was  important. 
He  feared  women  in  the  movement.  It  had  its  disciples,  fer 
vent  and  eloquent,  paid  and  unpaid  women  agitators,  but  he 
did  not  trust  them.  They  were  invariably  women  without 
home  ties,  women  with  nothing  to  protect,  women  with  every 
thing  to  gain  and  nothing  to  lose.  The  woman  in  the  home 
was  a  natural  anti-radical.  Not  the  police,  not  even  the 
army,  but  the  woman  in  the  home  was  the  deadly  enemy 
of  the  great  plan. 

279 


a8o A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

He  began  to  hate  Elinor,  not  so  much  for  herself,  as  for  the 
women  she  represented.  She  became  the  embodiment  of  pos 
sible  failure.  She  stood  in  his  path,  passively  resistant,  stub 
bornly  brave. 

She  was  not  a  clever  woman,  and  she  was  slow  in  gathering 
the  full  significance  of  a  nation-wide  general  strike,  that 
with  an  end  of  all  production  the  non-producing  world  would 
be  beaten  to  its  knees.  And  then  she  waited  for  a  world  move 
ment,  forgetting  that  a  flame  must  start  somewhere  and  then 
spread.  But  she  listened  and  learned.  There  was  a  great,  deal 
of  talk  about  class  and  mass.  She  learned  that  the  mass,  for 
instance,  was  hungry  for  a  change.  It  would  welcome  any 
change.  Woslosky  had  been  in  Russia  when  the  Kerensky 
regime  was  overthrown,  and  had  seen  that  strange  three  days 
when  the  submerged  part  of  the  city  filled  the  streets,  singing, 
smiling,  endlessly  walking,  exalted  and  without  guile. 

No  problems  troubled  them.  They  had  ceased  to  labor, 
and  that  was  enough. 

Had  it  not  been  for  its  leaders,  the  mass  would  have  risen 
like  a  tide,  and  ebbed  again. 

Elinor  had  struggled  to  understand.  This  was  not  Socialism.. 
Jim  had  been  a  Socialist  for  years.  He  had  believed  that 
the  gradual  elevation  of  the  few,  the  gradual  subjection  of 
the  many,  would  go  on  until  the  majority  would  drag  the 
few  down  to  their  own  level.  But  this  new  dream  was  some 
thing  immediate.  At  her  table  she  began  to  hear  talk  of 
substituting  for  that  slow  process  a  militant  minority.  She 
was  a  long  time,  months,  in  discovering  that  Jim  Doyle  was 
one  of  the  leaders  of  that  militant  minority,  and  that  the 
methods  of  it  were  unspeakably  criminal. 

Then  had  begun  Elinor  Doyle's  long  battle,  at  first  to  hold 
him  back,  and  that  failing,  the  fight  between  her  duty  to  her 
husband  and  that  to  her  country.  He  had  been  her  one  occu 
pation  and  obsession  too  long  to  be  easily  abandoned,  but 
she  was  sturdily  national,  too.  In  the  end  she  made  her 
decision.  She  lived  in  his  house,  mended  his  clothing,  served 
his  food,  met  his  accomplices,  and — watched. 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN  281 

She  hated  herself  for  it.  Every  fine  fiber  of  her  revolted. 
But  as  time  went  on,  and  she  learned  the  full  wickedness  of 
the  thing,  her  days  became  one  long  waiting.  She  saw  one 
move  after  another  succeed,  strike  after  strike  slowing  pro 
duction,  and  thus  increasing  the  cost  of  living.  She  saw  the 
growing  discontent  and  muttering,  the  vicious  circle  of  labor 
striking  for  more  money,  and  by  its  own  ceasing  of  activity 
making  the  very  increases  they  asked  inadequate.  And  behind 
it  all  she  saw  the  ceaseless  working,  the  endless  sowing,  of  a 
grim-faced  band  of  conspirators. 

She  was  obliged  to  wait.  A  few  men  talking  in  secret 
meetings,  a  hidden  propaganda  of  crime  and  disorder — there 
was  nothing  to  strike  at.  And  Elinor,  while  not  clever,  had  the 
Cardew  shrewdness.  She  saw  that,  like  the  crisis  in  a  fever, 
the  thing  would  have  to  come,  be  met,  and  defeated. 

She  had  no  hope  that  the  government  would  take  hold. 
Government  was  aloof,  haughty,  and  secure  in  its  own 
strength.  Just  now,  too,  it  was  objective,  not  subjective. 
It  was  like  a  horse  set  to  win  a  race,  and  unconscious  of 
the  fly  on  its  withers.  But  the  fly  was  a  gadfly. 

Elinor  knew  Doyle  was  beginning  to  suspect  her.  Some 
times  she  thought  he  would  kill  her,  if  he  discovered  what 
she  meant  to  do.  She  did  not  greatly  care.  She  waited  for 
some  inkling  of  the  day  set  for  the  uprising  in  the  city,  and 
saved  out  of  her  small  house  allowance  by  innumerable 
economies  and  subterfuges.  When  she  found  out  the  time 
she  would  go  to  the  Governor  of  the  State.  He  seemed 
to  be  a  strong  man,  and  she  would  present  him  facts.  Facts 
and  names.  Then  he  must  act — and  quickly. 

Cut  off  from  her  own  world,  and  with  no  roots  thrown  out 
In  the  new,  she  had  no  friends,  no  one  to  confide  in  or  of 
whom  to  ask  assistance.  And  she  was  afraid  to  go  to  How 
ard.  He  would  precipitate  things.  The  leaders  would  es 
cape,  and  a  new  group  would  take  their  places.  Such  a 
group,  she  knew,  stood  ready  for  that  very  emergency. 

On  the  afternoon  of  Lily's  departure  she  heard  Doyle  come 
in.  He  had  not  recovered  from  his  morning's  anger,  and 


282  A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

she  heard  his  voice,  raised  in  some  violent  reproof  to  Jen 
nie.  He  came  up  the  stairs,  his  head  sagged  forward,  his 
every  step  deliberate,  heavy,  ominous.  He  had  an  evening 
paper  in  his  hand,  and  he  gave  it  to  her  with  his  finger 
pointing  to  a  paragraph. 

"You  might  show  that  to  the  last  of  the  Cardews,"  he 
sneered. 

It  was  the  paragraph  about  Louis  Akers.    Elinor  read  it. 

"Who  were  the  masked  men?"  she  asked.    "Do  you  know?" 

"I  wish  to  God  I  did.  I'd Makes  him  a  laughing  stock, 

of  course.  And  just  now,  when Where's  Lily?" 

Elinor  put  down  the  paper. 

"She  is  not  here,.    She  went  home  this  afternoon." 

He  stared  at  her,  angrily  incredulous. 

"Home?" 

"This  afternoon." 

She  passed  him  and  went  out  into  the  hall.  But  he  fol 
lowed  her  and  caught  her  by  the  arm  as  she  reached  the  top 
of  the  staircase. 

"What  made  her  go  home?" 

"I  don't  know,  Jim." 

"She  didn't  say?" 

"Don't  hold  me  like  that.    No." 

She  tried  to  free  her  arm,  but  he  held  her,  his  face  angry 
and  suspicious. 

"You  are  lying  to  me,"  he  snarled.  "She  gave  you  a  rea 
son.  What  was  it?" 

Elinor  was  frightened,  but  she  had  not  lost  her  head.  She 
was  thinking  rapidly. 

"She  had  a  visitor  this  afternoon,  a  young  man.  He  must 
have  told  her  something  about  last  night.  She  came  up  and 
told  me  she  was  going." 

"You  know  he  told  her  something,  don't  you  ?" 

"Yes."    Elinor  had  cowered  against  the  wall.     "Jim,  don't 

look  like  that.    You  frighten  me.    I  couldn't  keep  her  here. 
j » 

"What  did  he  tell  her?" 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 283 

"He  accused  you." 

He  was  eyeing  her  coldly,  calculatingly.  All  his  suspi 
cions  of  the  past  weeks  suddenly  crystallized.  "And  you  let 
her  go,  after  that/'  he  said  slowly.  "You  were  glad  to  have 
her  go.  You  didn't  deny  what  she  said.  You  let  her  run 
back  home,  with  what  she  had  guessed  and  what  you  told 
her  to-day.  You " 

He  struck  her  then.  The  blow  was  as  remorseless  as  his 
voice,  as  deliberate.  She  fell  down  the  staircase  headlong, 
and  lay  there,  not  moving. 

The  elderly  maid  came  running  from  the  kitchen,  and  found 
him  half-way  down  the  stairs,  his  eyes  still  calculating,  but 
his  body  shaking. 

"She  fell,"  he  said,  still  staring  down.  But  the  servant 
faced  him,  her  eyes  full  of  hate. 

"You  devil !"  she  said.  "If  she's  dead,  I'll  see  you  hang 
for  it." 

But  Elinor  was  not  dead.  Doctor  Smalley,  making  rounds 
in  a  nearby  hospital  and  answering  the  emergency  call,  found 
her  lying  on  her  bed,  fully  conscious  and  in  great  pain,  while 
her  husband  bent  over  her  in  seeming  agony  of  mind.  She 
had  broken  her  leg.  He  sent  Doyle  out  during  the  setting.  It 
was  a  principle  of  his  to  keep  agonized  husbands  out  of  the 
room. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

LIFE  had  beaten  Lily  Cardew.  She  went  about  the  house, 
pathetically  reminiscent  of  Elinor  Doyle  in  those  days 
when  she  had  sought  sanctuary  there ;  but  where  Elinor  had 
seen  those  days  only  as  interludes  in  her  stormy  life,  Lily  was 
finding  a  strange  new  peace.  She  was  very  tender,  very 
thoughtful,  insistently  cheerful,  as  though  determined  that  her 
own  ill-fortune  should  not  affect  the  rest  of  the  household. 

But  to  Lily  this  peace  was  not  an  interlude,  but  an  end. 
Life  for  her  was  over.  Her  bright  dreams  were  gone,  her 
future  settled.  Without  so  putting  it,  even  to  herself,  she 
dedicated  herself  to  service,  to  small  kindnesses,  and  little 
thoughtful  acts.  She  was,  daily  and  hourly,  making  repara 
tion  to  them  all  for  what  she  had  cost  them,  in  hope. 

That  was  the  thing  that  had  gone  out  of  life.  Hope.  Her 
loathing  of  Louis  Akers  was  gone.  She  did  not  hate  him. 
Rather  she  felt  toward  him  a  sort  of  numbed  indifference. 
She  wished  never  to  see  him  again,  but  the  revolt  that  had 
followed  her  knowledge  of  the  conditions  under  which  he 
had  married  her  was  gone.  She  tried  to  understand  his  view 
point,  to  make  allowances  for  his  lack  of  some  fundamental 
creed  to  live  by.  But  as  the  days  went  on,  with  that  healthy 
tendency  of  the  mind  to  bury  pain,  she  found  him,  from  a 
figure  that  bulked  so  large  as  to  shut  out  all  the  horizon  of 
her  life,  receding  more  and  more. 

But  always  he  would  shut  off  certain  things.  Love,  and 
marriage,  and  of  course  the  hope  of  happiness.  Happiness 
was  a  thing  one  earned,  and  she  had  not  earned  it. 

After  the  scene  at  the  Saint  Elmo,  when  he  had  refused 
to  let  her  go,  and  when  Willy  Cameron  had  at  last  locked 
him  in  the  bedroom  of  the  suite  and  had  taken  her  away, 
there  had  followed  a  complete  silence.  She  had  waited  for 
some  move  on  his  part,  perhaps  an  announcement  of  th« 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 285 

marriage  in  the  newspapers,  but  nothing  had  appeared.  He 
had  commenced  a  whirlwind  campaign  for  the  mayoralty, 
and  was  receiving  a  substantial  support  from  labor. 

The  months  at  the  house  on  Cardew  Way  seemed  more 
and  more  dream-like,  and  that  quality  of  remoteness  was 
accentuated  by  the  fact  that  she  had  not  been  able  to  talk 

0  Elinor.     She  had  telephoned  more  than  once  during  the 
ek,  but  a  new  maid  had  answered.     Mrs.  Doyle  was  out. 

Mrs.  Doyle  was  unable  to  come  to  the  telephone.  The  girl 
vas  a  foreigner,  with  something  of  Woslosky's  burr  in  her 
/oice. 

Lily  had  not  left  the  house  since  her  return.  During  that 
"amily  conclave  which  had  followed  her  arrival,  a  stricken 
hing  of  few  words  and  long  anxious  pauses,  her  grand- 
'ather  had  suggested  that.  He  had  been  curiously  mild  with 
icr,  her  grandfather.  He  had  made  no  friendly  overtures, 
mt  he  had  neither  jibed  nor  sneered. 

Tt's  done,"  he  had  said  briefly.  "The  thing  now  is  to  keep 
icr  out  of  his  clutches."  He  had  turned  to  her.  "I  wouldn't 
eave  the  house  for  a  few  days,  Lily." 

It  was  then  that  Willy  Cameron  had  gone.  Afterwards 
he  thought  that  he  must  have  been  waiting,  patiently  pro- 
ective,  to  see  how  the  old  man  received  her. 

Her  inability  to  reach  Elinor  began  to  dismay  her,  at  last. 
There  was  something  sinister  about  it,  and  finally  Howard 
limself  went  to  the  Doyle  house.  Lily  had  come  back  on 
Thursday,  and  on  the  following  Tuesday  he  made  his  call, 
iming  it  so  that  Doyle  would  probably  be  away  from  home. 
3ut  he  came  back  baffled. 

"She  was  not  at  home,"  he  said.  "I  had  to  take  the  ser 
vant's  word  for  it,  but  I  think  the  girl  was  lying." 

"She  may  be  ill.    She  almost  never  goes  out." 

"What  possible  object  could  they  have  in  concealing  her 
llness?"  Howard  said  impatiently. 

But  he  was  very  uneasy,  and  what  Lily  had  told  him 
since  her  return  only  increased  his  anxiety.  The  house  was 

1  hotbed  of  conspiracy,  and  for  her  own  reasons  Elinor  was 


286  A  POOR  WISE  MAN  ___ 

remaining  there.  It  was  no  place  for  a  sister  of  his.  But 
Elinor  for  years  had  only  touched  the  outer  fringes  of  his 
life,  and  his  days  were  crowded  with  other  things ;  the  increas 
ing  arrogance  of  the  strikers,  the  titter  uselessness  of  trying  to  • 
make  terms  with  them,  his  own  determination  to  continue 
to  fight  his  futile  political  campaign.  He  put  her  out  of  his 
mind. 

Then,  at  the  end  of  another  week,  a  curious  thing  happened. 

Anthony  and  Lily  were  in  the  library.  Old  Anthony  with 
out  a  club  was  Old  Anthony  lost,  and  he  had  developed 
a  habit,  at  first  rather  embarrassing  to  the  others,  of  spend 
ing  much  of  his  time  downstairs.  He  was  no  sinner  turned 
saint.  He  still  let  the  lash  of  his  tongue  play  over  the  house 
hold,  but  his  old  zest  in  it  seemed  gone.  He  made,  too, 
small  tentative  overtures  to  Lily,  intended  to  be  friendly, 
but  actually  absurdly  self-conscious.  Grace,  watching  him, 
often  felt  him  rather  touching.  It  was  obvious  to  her  that 
he  blamed  himself,  rather  than  Lily,  for  what  had  happened. 

On  this  occasion  he  had  asked  Lily  to  read  to  him. 

"And  leave  out  the  politics,"  he  had  said,  "I  get  enough 
of  that  wherever  I  go." 

As  she  read  she  felt  him  watching  her,  and  in  the  middle 
of  a  paragraph  he  suddenly  said: 

"What's  become  of  Cameron?" 

"He  must  be  very  busy.  He  is  supporting  Mr.  Hendricks,, 
you  know." 

"Supporting  him!  He's  carrying  him  on  his  back,"  grunted' 
Anthony.  "What  is  it,  Grayson?" 

"A  lady — a  woman — calling  on  Miss  Cardew." 

Lily  rose,  but  Anthony  motioned  her  back. 

"Did  she  give  any  name  ?" 

"She  said  to  say  it  was  Jennie,  sir." 

"Jennie!     It  must  be  Aunt  Elinor's  Jennie!" 

"Send  her  in,"  said  Anthony,  and  stood  waiting.  Lily/ 
noticed  his  face  twitching;  it  occurred  to  her  then  that  this^ 
strange  old  man  might  still  love  his  daughter,  after  all  the- 
years,  and  all  his  cruelty. 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 287 

It  was  the  elderly  servant  from  the  Doyle  house  who  came 
in,  a  tall  gaunt  woman,  looking  oddly  unfamiliar  to  Lily  in 
a  hat. 

"Why,  Jennie !"  she  said.    And  then :  "Is  anything  wrong  ?" 

"There  is  and  there  isn't,"  Jennie  said,  somberly.  "I 
just  wanted  to  tell  you,  and  I  don't  care  if  he  kills  me  for  it. 
It  was  him  that  threw  her  downstairs.  I  heard  him  hit 
her/' 

Old  Anthony  stiffened. 

"He  threw  Aunt  Elinor  downstairs?" 

"That's  how  she  broke  her  leg." 

Sheer  amazement  made  Lily  inarticulate. 

"But  they  said — we  didn't  know — do  you  mean  that  she 
has  been  there  all  this  time,  hurt?" 

"I  mean  just  that,"  said  Jennie,  stolidly.  "I  helped  set 
it,  with  him  pretending  to  be  all  worked  up,  for  the  doctor 
to  see.  He  got  rid  of  me  all  right.  He's  got  one  of  his 
spies  there  now,  a  Bolshevik  like  himself.  You  can  ask 
the  neighbors." 

Howard  was  out,  and  when  the  woman  had  gone  Anthony 
ordered  his  car.  Lily,  frightened  by  the  look  on  his  face, 
made  only  one  protest. 

"You  mustn't  go  alone,"  she  said.  "Let  me  go,  too.  Or 
take  Grayson — anybody." 

But  he  went  alone;  in  the  hall  he  picked  up  his  hat  and 
stick,  and  drew  on  his  gloves. 

"What  is  the  house  number?" 

Lily  told  him  and  he  went  out,  moving  deliberately,  like 
a  man  who  has  made  up  his  mind  to  follow  a  certain  course, 
but  to  keep  himself  well  in  hand. 


CHAPTER  XXXIH 

ACTING  on  Willy  Cameron's  suggestion,  Dan  Boyd  re 
tained  his  membership  in  the  union  and  frequented  the 
meetings.  He  learned  various  things,  that  the  strike  vote  had 
been  padded,  for  instance,  and  that  the  Radicals  had  taken 
advantage  of  the  absence  of  some  of  the  conservative  leaders 
to  secure  such  support  as  they  had  received.  He  found  the 
better  class  of  workmen  dissatisfied  and  unhappy.  Some  of 
them,  men  who  loved  their  tools,  had  resented  the  order  to  put 
them  down  where  they  were  and  walk  out,  and  this  resentment, 
childish  as  it  seemed,  was  an  expression  of  their  general  dis 
satisfaction  with  the  autocracy  they  had  themselves  built  up. 

Finally  Dan's  persistent  attendance  and  meek  acquiescence, 
added  to  his  war  record,  brought  him  reward.  He  was  elected 
member  of  a  conference  to  take  to  the  Central  Labor  Council 
the  suggestion  for  a  general  strike.  It  was  arranged  that  the 
delegates  take  the  floor  one  after  the  other,  and  hold  it  for  as 
long  as  possible.  Then  they  were  to  ask  the  President  of  the 
Council  to  put  the  question. 

The  arguments  were  carefully  prepared.  The  general  strike 
was  to  be  urged  as  the  one  salvation  of  the  labor  movement. 
It  would  prove  the  solidarity  of  labor.  And,  at  the  Council 
meeting  a  few  days  later,  the  rank  and  file  were  impressed 
by  the  arguments.  Dan,  gnawing  his  nails  and  listening, 
watched  anxiously.  The  idea  was  favorably  received,  and  the 
delegates  went  back  to  their  local  unions,  to  urge,  coerce  and 
threaten. 

Not  once,  during  the  meeting,  had  there  been  any  suggestion 
of  violence,  but  violence  was  in  the  air,  nevertheless.  The 
quantity  of  revolutionary  literature  increased  greatly  during 
the  following  ten  days,  and  now  it  was  no  longer  furtively  dis 
tributed.  It  was  sold  or  given  away  at  all  meetings ;  it  flooded 
the  various  headquarters  with  its  skillful  compound  of  lies 

•SI 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 289 

and  truth.  The  leaders  notified  of  the  situation,  pretended 
that  it  was  harmless  raving,  a  natural  and  safe  outlet  for 
suppressed  discontents. 

Dan  gathered  up  an  armful  cf  it  and  took  it  home. 

On  a  Sunday  following,  there  was  a  mass  meeting  at  the 
Colosseum,  and  a  business  agent  of  one  of  the  unions  made 
an  impassioned  speech.  He  recited  old  and  new  grievances, 
said  that  the  government  had  failed  to  live  up  to  its  promises, 
that  the  government  boards  were  always  unjust  to  the  workers, 
and  ended  with  a  statement  of  the  steel  makers'  profits. 

Dan  turned  impatiently  to  a  man  beside  him. 

"Why  doesn't  he  say  how  much  of  that  profit  the  govern 
ment  gets?"  he  demanded. 

But  the  man  only  eyed  him  suspiciously. 

Dan  fell  silent.  He  knew  it  was  wrong,  but  he  had  no  gift 
of  tongue.  It  was  at  that  meeting  that  for  the  first  time  he 
heard  used  the  word  "revolution." 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

OLD  Anthony's  excursion  to  his  daughter's  house  had  not 
prospered.  During  the  drive  to  Cardew  Way  he  sat  for 
ward  on  the  edge  of  the  seat  of  his  limousine,  his  mouth 
twitching  with  impatience  and  anger,  his  stick  tightly  clutched 
in  his  hand.  Almost  before  the  machine  stopped  he  was  out 
on  the  pavement,  scanning  the  house  with  hostile  eyes. 

The  building  was  dark.  Paul,  the  chauffeur,  watching  curi 
ously,  for  the  household  knew  that  Anthony  Cardew  had 
sworn  never  to  darken  his  daughter's  door,  saw  his  erect, 
militant  figure  enter  the  gate  and  lose  itself  in  the  shadow 
of  the  house.  There  followed  a  short  interval  of  nothing 
in  particular,  and  then  a  tall  man  appeared  in  the  rectangle 
of  light  which  was  the  open  door. 

Jim  Doyle  was  astounded  when  he  saw  his  visitor.  As 
tounded  and  alarmed.  But  he  recovered  himself  quickly, 
and  smiled. 

"This  is  something  I  never  expected  to  see,"  he  said,  "Mr. 
Anthony  Cardew  on  my  doorstep." 

"I  don't  give  a  damn  what  you  expected  to  see,"  said  Mr. 
Anthony  Cardew.  "I  want  to  see  my  daughter." 

"Your  daughter?  You  have  said  for  a  good  many  years 
that  you  have  no  daughter." 

"Stand  aside,  sir.    I  didn't  come  here  to  quibble." 

"But  I  love  to  quibble,"  sneered  Doyle.    "However,  if  you 

insist I  might  as  well  tell  you,  I  haven't  the  remotest 

intention  of  letting  you  in." 

"I'll  ask  you  a  question,"  said  old  Anthony.  "Is  it  true 
that  my  daughter  has  been  hurt?" 

"My  wife  is  indisposed.  I  presume  we  are  speaking  of 
the  same  person." 

"You  infernal  scoundrel,"  shouted  Anthony,  and  raising 
his  cane,  brought  it  down  with  a  crack  on  Doyle's  head.  The 

290 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 291 

chauffeur  was  half-way  up  the  walk  by  that  time,  and  broke 
into  a  run.  He  saw  Doyle,  against  the  light,  reel,  recover 
and  raise  his  fist,  but  he  did  not  bring  it  down. 

"Stop  that!"  yelled  the  chauffeur,  and  came  on  like  a 
charging  steer.  When  he  reached  the  steps  old  Anthony 
was  hanging  his  stick  over  his  left  forearm,  and  Doyle  was 
inside  the  door,  trying  to  close  it.  This  was  difficult,  how 
ever,  because  Anthony  had  quietly  put  his  foot  over  the  sill. 

"I  am  going  to  see  my  daughter,  Paul,"  said  Anthony  Car- 
dew.  "Can  you  open  the  door?" 

"Open  it!"  Paul  observed  truculently.     "Watch  me!" 

He  threw  himself  against  the  door,  but  it  gave  suddenly, 
and  sent  him  sprawling  inside  at  Doyle's  feet.  He  was  up 
in  an  instant,  squared  to  fight,  but  he  only  met  Jim  Doyle's 
mocking  smile.  Doyle  stood,  arms  folded,  and  watched  An 
thony  Cardew  enter  his  house.  Whatever  he  feared  he  covered 
with  the  cynical  mask  that  was  his  face. 

He  made  no  move,  offered  no  speech. 

"Is  she  upstairs?" 

"She  is  asleep.    Do  you  intend  to  disturb  her?" 

"I  do,"  said  old  Anthony  grimly.  "I'll  go  first,  Paul.  You 
follow  me,  but  I'd  advise  you  to  come  up  backwards." 

Suddenly  Doyle  laughed. 

"What!"  he  said,  "Mr.  Anthony  Cardew  paying  his  first 
visit  to  my  humble  home,  and  anticipating  violence!  You 
underestimate  the  honor  you  are  doing  me." 

He  stood  like  a  mocking  devil  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase 
until  the  two  men  had  reached  the  top.  Then  he  followed 
them.  The  mask  had  dropped  from  his  face,  and  anger 
and  watchfulness  showed  in  it.  If  she  talked,  he  would  kill 
her.  But  she  knew  that.  She  was  not  a  fool. 

Elinor  lay  in  the  bed,  listening.  She  had  recognized  her 
father's  voice,  and  her  first  impulse  was  one  of  almost  un 
bearable  relief.  They  had  found  her.  They  had  come  to 
take  her  away.  For  she  knew  now  that  she  was  a  prisoner; 
even  without  the  broken  leg  she  would  have  been  a  prisoner. 
The  girl  downstairs  was  one  of  them,  and  her  jailer.  A 


292 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

jailer  who  fed  her,  and  gave  her  grudgingly  the  attention  she 
required,  but  that  was  all. 

Just  when  Doyle  had  begun  to  suspect  her  she  did  not 
know,  but  on  the  night  after  her  injury  he  had  taken  pains 
to  verify  his  suspicions.  He  had  found  first  her  little  store 
of  money,  and  tliat  had  angered  him.  In  the  end  he  had 
broken  open  a  locked  trinket  box  and  found  a  notebook  in 
which  for  months  she  had  kept  her  careful  records.  Here 
and  there,  scattered  among  house  accounts,  were  the  names 
of  the  radical  members  of  The  Central  Labor  Council, 
and  other  names,  spoken  before  her  and  carefully  remem 
bered.  He  had  read  them  out  to  her  as  he  came  tq^ 
them,  suffering  as  she  was,  and  she  had  expected  death 
then.  But  he  had  not  killed  her.  He  had  sent  Jennie 
away  and  brought  in  this  Russian  girl,  a  mad-eyed  fanatic 
named  Clga,  and  from  that  time  on  he  visited  her  once  daily. 
In  his  anger  and  triumph  over  her  he  devised  the  most  cun 
ning  of  all  punishments;  he  told  her  of  the  movement's 
progress,  of  its  ingeniously  contrived  devilments  in  store, 
of  its  inevitable  success.  What  buildings  and  homes  were 
to  be  bombed,  the  Cardew  house  first  among  them ;  what 
leading  citizens  were  to  be  held  as  hostages,  with  all  that 
that  implied ;  and  again  the  Cardews  headed  the  list. 

When  Doctor  Smalley  came  he  or  the  Russian  were  al 
ways  present,  solicitous  and  attentive.  She  got  out  of  her 
bed  one  day,  and  dragging  her  splinted  leg  got  to  her  desk, 
in  the  hope  of  writing  a  note  and  finding  some  opportunity 
of  giving  it  to  the  doctor.  Only  to  discover  that  they  had 
taken  away  her  pen,  pencils  and  paper. 

She  had  been  found  there  by  Olga,  but  the  girl  had  made 
no  comment.  Olga  had  helped  her  back  into  bed  without  a 
word,  but  from  that  time  on  had  spent  most  of  her  day  on 
the  upper  floor.  Not  until  Doyle  came  in  would  she  go 
downstairs  to  prepare  his  food 

Elinor  lay  in  her  bed  and  listened  to  her  father  coming 
up  the  stairs.  She  knew,  before  he  reached  the  top,  that 
Doyle  would  never  let  her  be  taken  away.  He  would  kill 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 293 

her  first.  He  might  kill  Anthony  Cardew.  She  had  a  sick 
ening  sense  of  tragedy  coming  up  the  staircase,  tragedy  whicfe 
took  the  form  of  her  father's  familiar  deliberate  step.  Per 
haps  had  she  known  of  the  chauffeur's  presence  she  might 
have  chanced  it,  for  every  fiber  of  her  tired  body  was  crying 
for  release.  But  she  saw  only  her  father,  alone  in  that  house 
with  Doyle  and  the  smoldering  Russian. 

The  key  turned  in  the  lock. 

Anthony  Cardew  stood  in  the  doorway,  looking  at  her. 
With  her  long  hair  in  braids,  she  seemed  young,  almost  girl 
ish.  She  looked  like  the  little  girl  who  had  gone  to  dancing 
school  in  short  white  frocks  and  long  black  silk  stockings, 
*so  many  years  ago. 

"I've  just  learned  about  it,  Elinor,"  he  said.  He  moved 
to  the  bed  and  stood  beside  it,  looking  down,  but  he  did  not 
touch  her.  "Are  you  able  to  be  taken  away  from  here?" 

She  knew  that  Doyle  was  outside,  listening,  and  she  hard 
ened  her  heart  for  the  part  she  had  to  play.  It  was  difficult; 
she  was  so  infinitely  moved  by  her  father's  coming,  and  in 
the  dim  light  he,  too,  looked  like  himself  of  years  ago. 

"Taken  away?    Where?"  she  asked. 

"You  don't  want  to  stay  here,  do  you?"  he  demanded 
bluntly. 

"This  is  my  home,  father." 

"Good  God,  home!  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that,  with  all 
you  must  know  about  this  man,  you  still  want  to  stay  with 
him?" 

"I  have  no  other  home." 

"I  am  offering  you  one." 

Old  Anthony  was  bewildered  and  angry.  Elinor  put  out 
a  hand  to  touch  him,  but  he  drew  back. 

"After  be  has  thrown  you  downstairs  and  injured  you " 

"How  did  you  hear  that?" 

"The  servant  you  had  here  came  to  see  me  to-night,  Elinor. 
She  said  that  that  blackguard  outside  there  had  struck  you 
and  you  fell  down  the  stairs.  If  you  tell  me  that's  the  truth 
I'll  break  every  bone  in  his  body." 


294 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

Sheer  terror  for  Anthony  made  her  breathless. 

"But  it  isn't  true,"  she  said  wildly.  "You  mustn't  think 
that.  I  fell.  I  slipped  and  fell." 

"Then,"  said  Anthony,  speaking  slowly,  "you  are  not  a 
prisoner  here?" 

"A  prisoner?  I'd  be  a  prisoner  anywhere,  father.  I  can't 
walk." 

"That  door  was  locked." 

She  was  fighting  valiantly  for  him. 

"I  can't  walk,  f atlier.  I  don't  require  a  locked  door  to  keep 
me  in." 

He  was  too  confused  and  puzzled  to  notice  the  evasion. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  won't  let  me  have  you  taken 
home?  You  are  still  going  to  stay  with  this  man?  You 
know  what  he  is,  don't  you?" 

"I  know  what  you  think  he  is."  She  tried  to  smile,  and  he 
looked  away  from  her  quickly  and  stared  around  the  room, 
seeing  nothing,  however.  Suddenly  he  turned  and  walked 
to  the  door ;  but  he  stopped  there,  his  hand  on  the  knob,  and 
lis  face  twitching. 

"Once  more,  Elinor,"  he  said,  "I  ask  you  if  you  will  let 
me  take  you  back  with  me.  This  is  the  last  time.  I  have 
come,  after  a  good  many  years  of  bad  feeling,  to  make  my 
peace  with  you  and  to  offer  you  a  home.  Will  you  come  ?" 

"No." 

Her  courage  almost  failed  her.  She  lay  back,  her  eyes 
closed  and  her  face  colorless.  The  word  itself  was  little 
more  than  a  whisper. 

Her  father  opened  the  door  and  went  out.  She  heard  him 
going  down  the  stairs,  heard  other  footsteps  that  followed 
him,  and  listened  in  an  agony  of  fear  that  Doyle  would  drop 
him  in  the  hall  below.  But  nothing  happened.  The  outside 
door  closed,  and  after  a  moment  she  opened  her  eyes.  Doyle 
was  standing  by  the  bed. 

"So,"  he  said,  "you  intend  to  give  me  the  pleasure  of  your 
society  for  some  time,  do  you?" 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 295 

She  said  nothing.  She  was  past  any  physical  fear  for 
herself. 

"You  liar!"  he  said  softly.  "Do  you  think  I  don't  under 
stand  why  you  want  to  remain  here?  You  are  cleverer  than 
I  thought  you  were,  but  you  are  not  as  clever  as  I  am.  You'd 
have  done  better  to  have  let  him  take  you  away." 

"You  would  have  killed  him  first." 

"Perhaps  I  would."  He  lighted  a  cigarette.  "But  it  is 
a  pleasant  thought  to  play  with,  and  I  shall  miss  it  when  the 
thing  is  fait  accompli.  I  see  Olga  has  left  you  without  ice 
water.  Shall  I  bring  you  some?" 

He  was  still  smiling  faintly  when  he  brought  up  the  pitcher, 
some  time  later,  and  placed  it  on  the  stand  beside  the  bed. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

IN  the  Boyd  house  things  went  on  much  as  before,  but 
with  a  new  heaviness.  Ellen,  watching  keenly,  knew 
why  the  little  house  was  so  cheerless  and  somber.  It  had 
been  Willy  Cameron  who  had  brought  to  it  its  gayer  mo 
ments,  Willy  determinedly  cheerful,  slamming  doors  and  whis 
tling;  Willy  racing  up  the  stairs  with  something  hot  for 
Mrs.  Boyd's  tray;  Willy  at  the  table,  making  them  forget 
the  frugality  of  the  meals  with  campaign  anecdotes ;  Willy, 
lamenting  the  lack  of  a  chance  to  fish,  and  subsequently  elicit 
ing  a  rare  smile  from  Edith  by  being  discovered  angling  in 
the  kitchen  sink  with  a  piece  of  twine  on  the  end  of  his 
umbrella. 

Rather  forced,  some  of  it,  but  eminently  good  for  all  of 
them.  And  then  suddenly  it  ceased.  He  made  an  effort,  but 
there  was  no  spontaneity  in  him.  He  came  in  quietly,  never 
whistled,  and  ate  very  little.  He  began  to  look  almost  gaunt, 
too,  and  Edith,  watching  him  with  jealous,  loving  eyes,  gave 
voice  at  last  to  the  thought  that  was  in  her  mind. 

"I  wish  you'd  go  away,"  she  said,  "and  let  us  fight  this  thing 
out  ourselves.  Dan  would  have  to  get  something  to  do,  then, 
for  one  thing." 

"But  I  don't  want  to  go  away,  Edith." 

"Then  you're  a  fool,"  she  observed,  bitterly.  "You  can't 
help  me  any,  and  there's  no  use  hanging  mother  around 
your  neck." 

''She  won't  be  around  any  one's  neck  very  long,  Edith 
dear." 

"After  that,  will  you  go  away?" 

"Not  if  you  still  want  me." 

"Wrant  you!" 

Dan  was  out,  and  Ellen  had  gone  up  for  the  invalid's  tray. 
They  were  alone  together,  standing  in  the  kitchen  doorway, 

296 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN  297 

Suddenly  Edith,  beside  him,  ran  her  hand  through  his  arm. 

"If  I  had  been  a  different  sort  of  girl,  Willy,  do  you  think 
— could  you  ever  have  cared  for  me?" 

"I  never  thought  about  you  that  way/'  he  said,  simply. 
"I  do  care  for  you.  You  know  that." 

She  dropped  her  hand. 

"You  are  in  love  with  Lily  Cardew.  That's  why  you  don't 
— I've  known  it  all  along,  Willy.  I  used  to  think  you'd  get 
over  it,  never  seeing  her  and  all  that.  But  you  don't,  do  you  ?" 
She  looked  up  at  him.  "The  real  thing  lasts,  I  suppose.  It 
will  with  me.  I  wish  to  heaven  it  wouldn't." 

He  was  most  uncomfortable,  but  he  drew  her  hand  within 
his  arm  again  and  held  it  there. 

"Don't  get  to  thinking  that  you  care  anything  about  me," 
he  said.  "There's  not  as  much  love  in  the  world  as  there 
ought  to  be,  and  we  all  need  to  hold  hands,  but — don't  fancy 
anything  like  that." 

"I  wanted  to  tell  you.  If  I  hadn't  known  about  her  I 
wouldn't  have  told  you,  but — you  said  it  when  you  said 
there's  not  as  much  love  as  there  oudit  to  be.  I'm  gone, 
but  I  guess  my  caring  for  you  hasn't  hurt  me  any.  It's  the 
only  reason  I'm  alive  to-day." 

She  freed  her  hand,  and  stood  staring  out  over  the  little 
autumn  garden.  There  was  such  brooding  trouble  in  her 
face  that  he  watched  her  anxiously. 

"I  think  mother  suspects,"  she^said  at  last. 

"I  hope  not,  Edith." 

"I  think  she  does.  She  watches  me  all  the  time,  and  she 
asked  to  see  Dan  to-night.  Only  he  didn't  come  home." 

"You  must  deny  it,  Edith,"  he  said,  almost  fiercely.  "She 
must  not  know,  ever.  That  is  one  thing  we  can  save  her, 
and  must  save  her." 

But,  going  upstairs  as  usual  before  he  went  out,  he  real 
ized  that  Edith  was  right,  and  that  matters  had  reached 
a  crisis.  The  sick  woman  had  eaten  nothing,  and  her  eyes 
were  sunken  and  anxious.  There  was  an  unspoken  question 
in  them,  too,  as  she  turned  them  on  him.  Most  significant 


298  A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

of  all,  the  little  album  was  not  beside  her,   r*or  the   usual 
litter  of  newspapers  on  the  bed. 

"I  wish  you  weren't  going  out,  Willy,"  she  said  querulously. 
"I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  something." 

"Can't  we  discuss  it  in  the  morning?" 

"I  won't  sleep  till  I  get  it  off  my  mind,  Willy." 

But  he  could  not  face  that  situation  then.  He  needed 
time,  for  one  thing.  Surely  there  must  be  some  way  out, 
some  way  to  send  this  frail  little  woman  dreamless  to  her 
last  sleep.  Life  could  not  be  so  cruel  that  death  would 
seem  kind. 

He  spoke  at  three  different  meetings  that  night,  for  the 
election  was  close  at  hand.  Pink  Denslow  took  him  about 
in  his  car,  and  stood  waiting  for  him  at  the  back  of  the 
crowd.  In  the  intervals  between  hall  and  hall  Pink  found 
Willy  Cameron  very  silent  and  very  grave,  but  he  could 
not  know  that  the  young  man  beside  him  was  trying  to  solve 
a  difficult  question.  Which  was:  did  two  wrongs  ever  make 
a  right? 

At  the  end  of  the  last  meeting  Willy  Cameron  decided 
to  walk  home. 

"I  have  some  things  to  think  over.  Pink,"  he  said.  "Thanks 
for  the  car.  It  saves  a  lot  of  time." 

Pink  sat  at  the  wheel,  carefully  scrutinizing  Willy.  It  struck 
him  then  that  Cameron  looked  fagged  and  unhappy. 

"Nothing  I  can  do,  I  suppose?" 

"Thanks,  no." 

Pink  knew  nothing  of  Lily's  marriage,  nor  of  the  events 
that  had  followed  it.  To  his  uninquiring  mind  all  was  as  it 
should  be  with  her ;  she  was  at  home  again,  although  strangely 
quiet  and  very  sweet,  and  her  small  world  was  at  peace 
with  her.  It  was  all  right  with  her,  he  considered,  al 
though  all  wrong  with  him.  Except  that  she  was  strangely 
subdued,  which  rather  worried  him.  It  was  not  possible,  for 
instance,  to  rouse  her  to  one  ^ ".  their  old  red-hot  discussions 
on  religion,  or  marriage,  or  love. 

"I  saw  Lily  Cardew  this  afternoon,  Cameron." 


A  PQCm  WISE  MAN 299 

"Is  she  all  right?"  asked  Willy  Cameron,  in  a  carefully 
casual  tone. 

"I  don't  know."  Pink's  honest  voice  showed  perplexity. 
"She  looks  all  right,  and  the  family's  eating  out  of  her  hand. 
But  she's  changed  somehow.  She  asked  for  you/' 

"Thanks.     Well,  good-night,  old  man." 

Willy  Cameron  was  facing  the  decision  of  his  life  that 
night,  as  he  walked  home.  Lily  was  gone,  out  of  his  reach 
and  out  of  his  life.  But  then  she  had  never  been  within 
either.  She  was  only  something  wonderful  and  far  away, 
like  a  star  to  which  men  looked  and  sometimes  prayed.  Some 
day  she  would  be  free  again,  and  then  in  time  she  would 
marry.  Some  one  like  Pink,  her  own  sort,  and  find  happiness. 

But  he  knew  that  he  would  always  love  her,  to  the  end 
of  his  days,  and  even  beyond,  in  that  heaven  in  which  he 
so  simply  believed.  All  the  things  that  puzzled  him  would 
be  straightened  out  there,  and  perhaps  a  man  who  had  loved 
a  woman  and  lost  her  here  would  find  her  there,  and  walk 
hand  in  hand  with  her,  through  the  bright  days  of  Paradise. 

Not  that  that  satisfied  him.  He  v/as  a  very  earthly  lover, 
with  the  hungry  arms  of  youth.  He  yearned  unspeakably 
for  her.  He  would  have  died  for  her  as  easily  as  he  would 
have  lived  for  her,  but  he  could  do  neither. 

That  was  one  side  of  him.  The  other,  having  put  her  away 
in  that  warm  comer  of  his  heart  which  was  hers  always, 
was  busy  with  the  practical  problem  of  the  Boyds.  He  saw 
only  one  way  out,  and  that  way  he  had  been  seeing  with  in 
creasing  clearness  for  several  days.  Edith's  candor  that  night, 
and  Mrs.  Boyd's  suspicions,  clearly  pointed  to  it.  There  was 
one  way  by  which  to  save  Edith  and  her  child,  and  to  save 
the  dying  woman  the  agony  of  full  knowledge. 

Edith  was  sitting  on  the  doorstep,  alone.  He  sat  down 
on  the  step  below  her,  rather  silent,  still  busy  with  his  prob 
lem.  Although  the  night  was  warm,  the  girl  shivered. 

"She's  not  asleep.  She's  waiting  for  me  to  go  up,  Willy. 
She  means  to  call  me  in  and  ask  me." 


300 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

''Then  I'd  better  say  what  I  have  to  say  quickly.  Edith, 
will  you  marry  me?" 

She  drew  off  and  looked  at  him. 

"I'd  better  explain  what  I  mean,"  he  said,  speaking  with* 
some  difficulty.  "I  mean — go  through  the  ceremony  with  me. 
I  don't  mean  actual  marriage.  That  wouldn't  be  fair  to  either 
of  us,  because  you  know  that  I  care  for  some  one  else." 

"But  you  mean  a  real  marriage?" 

"Of   course.     Your  child  has  the  right  to  a  name,  dear. 
And,  if  you  don't  mind  telling  a  lie  to  save  our  souls,  and; 
for  her  peace  of  mind,  we  can  say  that  it  took  place  some 
time  ago." 

She  gazed  at  him  dazedly.  Then  something  like  suspicion 
came  into  her  face. 

"Is  it  because  of  what  I  told  you  to-night?" 

"I  had  thought  of  it  before.     That  helped,  of  course." 

It  seemed  so  surprisingly  simple,  put  into  words,  and  the: 
light  on  the  girl's  face  was  his  answer.  A  few  words,  so. 
easily  spoken,  and  two  liv^es  were  saved.  No,  three,  for 
Edith's  child  must  be  considered. 

"You  are  like  God,"  said  Edith,  in  a  low  voice.  "Like 
God."  And  fell  to  soft  \vceping.  She  was  unutterably  happy 
and  relieved.  She  sat  there,  not  daring  to  touch  him,  and; 
looked  out  into  the  quiet  street.  Before  her  she  saw  all  the 
things  that  she  had  thought  were  gone ;  honor,  a  place  in ; 
the  world  again,  the  right  to  look  into  her  mother's  eyes;, 
she  saw  marriage  and  happy,  golden  days.  He  did  not  love 
lier,  but  he  would  be  hers,  and  perhaps  in  His  own  good; 
time  the  Manager  of  all  destinies  would  make  him  love  her. 
She  would  try  so  hard  to  deserve  that. 

Mrs.  Boyd  was  asleep  when  at  last  Edith  went  up  the 
staircase,  and  Ellen,  lying  sleepless  on  her  cot  in  the  hot 
attic  room,  heard  the  girl  softly  humming  to  herself  as  she  un 
dressed,  and  marveled. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

HEN  Lily  had  been  at  home  for  some  time,  and  Louis 
Akers  had  made  no  attempt  to  see  her,  or  to  announce 
jihe  marriage,  the  vigilance  of  the  household  began  to  re- 
j rax.  Howard  Cardew  had  already  consulted  the  family  law- 
jrer  about  an  annulment,  and  that  gentleman  had  sent  a  letter 
iio  Akers,  which  had  received  no  reply. 
I;  Then  one  afternoon  Grayson,  whose  instructions  had  been 

.bsolute  as  to  admitting  Akers  to  the  house,  opened  the  door 
t!o   Mrs.   Denslow,  who  was  calling,  and   found  behind  that 

idy  Louis  Akers  himself.     He  made  an  effort  to  close  the 


oor  behind  the  lady,  but  Akers  was  too  quick  for  him,  and 
scene  at  the  moment  was  impossible. 

u;    He  ushered  Mrs.  Denslow  into  the  drawing  room,  and  com- 
'.  lig  out,  closed  the  doors. 

'!  "My  instructions,  sir,  are  to  say  to  you  that  the  ladies  are 
jot  at  home." 

|  But  Akers  held  out  his  hat  and  gloves  with  so  ugly  a  look 
]  jhat  Grayson  took  them. 

'I  have  come  to  see  my  wife,"  he  said.     'Tell  her  that, 
nd  that  if  she  doesn't  see  me  here  I'll  go  upstairs  and  find 
r." 

When  Grayson  still  hesitated  he  made  a  move  toward  the 
taircase,  and  the  elderly  servant,  astounded  at  the  speech 
nd  the  movement,  put  down  the  hat  and  faced  him. 

"I  do  not  recognize  any  one  in  the  household  by  that  name, 
ir." 

"You  don't,  don't  you?  Very  well.  Tell  Miss  Cardew  I 
m  here,  and  that  either  she  will  come  down  or  I'll  go  up. 
'11  wait  in  the  library." 

He  watched  Grayson  start  up  the  stairs,  and  then  went 
nto  the  library.  He  was  very  carefully  dressed,  and  momen- 
arily  exultant  over  the  success  of  his  ruse,  but  he  was  un- 

301 


302 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

easy,  too,  and  wary,  and  inclined  to  regard  the  house  as  ai 
possible  trap.      He   had   made   a   gambler's   venture,   risking 
everything  on  the  cards  he  held,   and  without  much  confi 
dence  in  them.     His  vanity  declined  to  believe  that  his  old ' 
power  over  Lily  was  gone,  but  he  had  held  a  purely  physical  i 
dominance   over    so    many    women    that   he   knew   both    his 
strength  and  his  limitations. 

What  he  could  not  understand,  what  had  kept  him  awake' 
so  many  nights  since  he  had  seen  her,  was  her  recoil  from 
him  on  Willy  Cameron's  announcement     She  had  known  he1 
had  led  the  life  of  his  sort ;  he  had  never  played  the  plaster 
saint  to  her.   And  she  had  accepted  her  knowledge  of  his  con 
nection  with  the  Red  movement,  on  his  mere  promise  to  re 
form.    But  this  other,  this — accident,  and  she  had  turned  fromi 
him  with  a  horror  that  made  him  furious  to  remember.    These 
silly  star-eyed  virgins,  who  accepted  careful  abstractions  and! 
then  turned  sick  at  life  itself,  a  man  was  a  fool  to  put  him 
self  in  their  hands. 

Mademoiselle  was  with  Lily  in  her  boudoir  when  Grayson  i 
came  up,  a  thin,  tired- faced,  suddenly  old  Mademoiselle,  much-' 
given  those  days  to  early  masses,  during  which  she  prayed  forr 
eternal  life  for  the  man  who  had  ruined  Lily's  life,  and  that* 
soon.  To  Mademoiselle  marriage  was  a  final  thing  and  divorce^ 
a  wickedness  against  God  and  His  establishment  on  earth. 

Lily,  rather  like  Willy  Cameron,  was  finding  on  her  spirit' 
at  that  time  a  burden  similar  to  his,  of  keeping  up  the  morales 
of  the  household. 

Grayson  came  in  and  closed  the  door  behind  him.  Anger r 
and  anxiety  were  in  his  worn  old  face,  and  Lily  got  up  quickly. 

"What  is  it,  Grayson?" 

"I'm  sorry,  Miss  Lily.    He  was  in  the  vestibule  behind  Mrs. 
Denslow,  and  I  couldn't  keep  him  out.    I  think  he  had  waited!1 
for  some  one  to  call,  knowing  I  couldn't  make  a  scene." 

Mademoiselle  turned  to  Lily. 

"You  must  not  see  him,"  she  said  in  rapid  French.  "Re 
main  here,  and  I  shall  telephone  for  your  father.  Lock  your! 
door.  He  may  come  up.  He  will  do  anything,  that  man." 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 303 

"I  am  going  down/'  Lily  said  quietly.  "I  owe  him  that. 
You  need  not  be  frightened.  And  don't  tell  mother;  it  will 
only  worry  her  and  do  no  good." 

Her  heart  was  beating  fast  as  she  went  down  the  stairs. 
From  the  drawing  room  came  the  voices  of  Grace  and  Mrs. 
Denslow,  chatting  amiably.  The  second  man  was  carrying  in 
tea,  the  old  silver  service  gleaming.  Over  all  the  lower  floor 
was  an  air  of  peace  and  comfort,  the  passionless  atmosphere 
of  daily  life  running  in  old  and  easy  grooves. 

When  Lily  entered  the  library  she  closed  the  door  behind 
her.  She  had,  on  turning,  a  swift  picture  of  Grayson,  taking 
up  his  stand  in  the  hall,  and  it  gave  her  a  sense  of  comfort. 
She  knew  he  would  remain  there,  impassively  waiting,  so  long 
as  Akers  was  in  the  house. 

Then  she  faced  the  man  standing  by  the  center  table.  He 
made  no  move  toward  her,  did  not  even  speak  at  once.  It  left 
on  her  the  burden  of  the  opening,  of  setting  the  key  of  what 
was  to  come.  She  was  steady  enough  now. 

"Perhaps  it  is  as  well  that  you  came,  Louis,"  she  said.  "I 
suppose  we  must  talk  it  over  some  time." 

"Yes,"  he  agreed,  his  eyes  on  her.  "We  must.  I  have  mar 
ried  a  wife,  and  I  want  her,  Lily." 

"You  know  that  is  impossible." 

"Because  of  something  that  happened  before  I  knew  you? 
I  never  made  any  pretensions  about  my  life  before  we  met. 
But  I  did  promise  to  go  straight  if  you'd  have  me,  and  I 
have.  I've  lived  up  to  my  bargain.  What  about  you?" 

"It  was  not  a  part  of  my  bargain  to  marry  you  while  you 

I  have  thought  and  thought,  Louis.  There  is  only  one  thing 
to  be  done.  You  will  have  to  divorce  me,  and  marry  her." 

"Marry  her?  A  girl  of  the  streets,  who  chooses  to  say 
that  I  am  the  father  of  her  child !  It's  the  oldest  trick  in  the 
word.  Besides—  He  played  his  best  card — "she  won't 

marry  me.  Ask  Cameron,  who  chose  to  make  himself  so 
damned  busy  about  my  affairs.  He's  in  love  with  her.  Ask 
him." 

In  spite  of  herself  Lily  winced.     Out  of  the  wreckage  of 


304 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

the  past  few  v/eeks  one  thing  had  seemed  to  remain,  some 
thing  to  hold  to,  solid  and  dependable  and  fine,  and  that  had 
been  Willy  Cameron.  She  had  found,  in  these  last  days,  some 
thing  infinitely  comforting  in  the  thought  that  he  cared  for  her. 
It  was  because  he  had  cared  that  he  had  saved  her  from  her 
self.  But,  if  this  were  true — 

"I  am  not  going  back  to  you,  Louis.  I  think  you  know  that. 
No  amount  of  talking  about  things  can  change  that." 

"Why  don't  you  face  life  and  try  to  understand  it?"  he  de 
manded,  brutally.  ''Men  are  like  that.  Women  are  like  that — 
sometimes.  You  can't  measure  human  passions  with  a  tape 
line.  That's  what  you  good  women  try  to  do,  and  you  make 
life  a  merry  little  hell."  He  made  an  effort,  and  softened  his 
voice.  "I'll  be  true  to  you,  Lily,  if  you'll  come  back." 

"No,"  she  said,  "you  would  mean  to  be,  but  you  would  not. 
You  have  no  foundation  to  build  on." 

"Meaning  that  I  am  not  a  gentleman." 

"Not  that.  I  know  you,  that's  all.  I  understand  so  much 
that  I  didn't  before.  What  you  call  love  is  only  something 
different.  When  that  was  gone  there  would  be  the  same 
thing  again.  You  would  be  sorry,  but  I  would  be  lost." 

Her  coolness  disconcerted  him.  Two  small  triangular  bits 
of  color  showed  in  his  face.  He  had  been  prepared  for  tears, 
even  for  a  refusal  to  return,  but  this  clear-eyed  appraisal  of 
himself,  and  the  accuracy  of  it,  confused  him.  He  took  refuge, 
in  the  only  method  he  knew ;  he  threw  himself  on  her  pity;  he 
made  violent,  passionate  love  to  her,  but  her  only  expression 
was  one  of  distaste.  When  at  last  he  caught  her  to  him  she 
perforce  submitted,  a  frozen  thing  that  told  him,  more  than 
any  words,  how  completely  he  had  lost  her.  He  threw  her 
away  from  him,  then,  baffled  and  angry. 

"You  little  devil !"  he  said.    "You  cold  little  devil !" 

"I  don't  love  you.  That's  all.  I  think  now  that  I  never  did." 

"You  pretended  damned  well." 

"Don't  you  think  you'd  better  go?"  Lily  said  wearily.  "I 
don't  like  to  hurt  you.  I  am  to  blame  for  a  great  deal.  But: 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 305 

there  is  no  use  going  on,  is  there?    I'll  give  you  your  freedom 
as  soon  as  I  can.    You  will  want  that,  of  course." 

"My  freedom !    Do  you  think  I  am  going  to  let  you  go  like 

that?     I'll  fight  you  and  your  family  in  every  court  in  the 

country  before  I  give  you  up.    You  can't  bring  Edith  Boyd  up 

*  against  me,  either.     If  she  does  that  I'll  bring  up  other  wit- 

j  nesses,  other  men,  and  she  knows  it." 

Lily  was  very  pale,  but  still  calm.  She  made  a  movement 
toward  the  bell,  but  he  caught  her  hand  before  she  could 
ring  it. 

"I'll  get  your  Willy  Cameron,  too,"  he  said,  his  face  dis 
torted  with  anger.     "I'll  get  him  good.     You've  done  a  bad 
i  thing  for  your  friends  and  your  family  to-day,  Lily.     I'll  go 
the  limit  on  getting  back  at  them.     I've  got  the  power,  and  by 
i  God,  I'll  use  it." 

He  flung  out  into  the  hall,  and  toward  the  door.  There  he 
;  encountered  Grayson,  who  reminded  him  of  his  hat  and  gloves, 
;  or  he  would  have  gone  without  them. 

Grayson,  going  into  the  library  a  moment  later,  found  Lily 
1  standing  there,  staring  ahead  and  trembling  violently.  He 
!  brought  her  a  cup  of  tea,  and  stood  by,  his  old  face  working, 
i  while  she  drank  it. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

THE  strike  had  apparently  settled  down  to  the  ordinary 
run  of  strikes.  The  newspaper  men  from  New  York 
were  gradually  recalled,  as  the  mill  towns  became  orderly, 
and  no  further  acts  of  violence  took  place.  Here  and  there 
mills  that  had  gone  down  fired  their  furnaces  again  and  went 
back  to  work,  many  with  depleted  shifts,  however. 

But  the  strikers  had  lost,  and  knew  it.  Howard  Cardew, 
facing  the  situation  with  his  customary  honesty,  saw  in 
the  gradual  return  of  the  men  to  work  only  the  urgency 
of  providing  for  their  families,  and  realized  that  it  was 
not  peace  that  was  coming,  but  an  armed  neutrality.  The 
Cardew  Mills  were  still  down,  but  by  winter  he  was  confident 
they  would  be  open  again.  To  what  purpose?  To  more 
wrangling  and  bickering,  more  strikes?  Where  was  the  mid 
dle  ground  ?  He  was  willing  to  give  the  men  a  percentage  of 
the  profits  they  made.  He  did  not  want  great  wealth,  only  an 
honest  return  for  his  invested  capital.  But  he  wanted  to  man 
age  his  own  business.  It  was  his  risk. 

The  coal  miners  were  going  out.  The  Cardews  owned  coal 
mines.  The  miners  wanted  to  work  a  minimum  day  for  a 
maximum  wage,  but  the  country  must  have  coal.  Shorter 
hours  meant  more  men  for  the  mines,  and  they  would  have  to- 
be  imported.  But  labor  resented  the  importation  of  foreign 
workers. 

Again,  what  was  the  answer? 

Still,  he  was  grateful  for  peace.  The  strike  dragged  on,  with 
only  occasional  acts  of  violence.  From  the  hill  above  Baxter  a 
sniper  daily  fired  with  a  long  range  rifle  at  the  toluol  tank  in 
the  center  of  one  of  the  mills,  and  had  so  far  escaped  captui 
as  the  tank  had  escaped  damage.  But  he  knew  well  enougl 
that  a  long  strike  was  playing  into  the  hands  of  the  Reds~  11 
was  impossible  to  sow  the  seeds  of  revolution  so  long  as 

306 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 307 

man's  dinner-pail  was  full,  his  rent  paid,  and  his  family  con 
tented.  But  a  long  strike,  with  bank  accounts  becoming  ex 
hausted  and  credit  curtailed,  would  pave  the  way  for  revo 
lution. 

Old  Anthony  had  had  a  drastic  remedy  for  strikes. 

"Let  all  the  storekeepers,  the  country  over,  refuse  credit  to 
the  strikers,  and  we'd  have  an  end  to  this  mess,"  he  said. 

''We'd  have  an  end  to  the  storekeepers,  too,"  Howard  had 
replied,  grimly. 

One  good  thing  had  come  out  of  the  bomb  outrages.  They 
had  had  a  salutary  effect  on  the  honest  labor  element.  These 
had  no  sympathy  with  such  methods  and  said  so.  But  a  cer 
tain  element,  both  native  and  foreign  born,  secretly  gloated 
and  waited. 

One  thing  surprised  and  irritated  Howard.  Public  sentiment 
was  not  so  much  with  the  strikers,  as  against  the  mill  owners. 
The  strike  worked  a  hardship  to  the  stores  and  small  busi 
nesses  dependent  on  the  great  mills;  they  forgot  the  years 
when  the  Cardews  had  brought  them  prosperity,  had  indeed 
made  them  possible,  and  they  felt  now  only  bitter  resentment 
at  the  loss  of  trade.  In  his  anger  Howard  saw  them  as  para 
sites,  fattening  on  the  conceptions  and  strength  of  those  who 
had  made  the  city.  They  were  men  who  built  nothing,  origin 
ated  nothing.  Men  who  hated  the  ladder  by  which  they  had 
climbed,  -who  cared  little  how  shaky  its  foundation,  so  long 
as  it  stood. 

In  September,  lured  by  a  false  security,  the  governor 
ordered  the  demobilization  of  the  state  troops,  save  for  two 
companies.  The  men  at  the  Baxter  and  Friendship  plants, 
owned  by  the  Cardews,  had  voted  to  remain  out,  but  their 
leaders  appeared  to  have  them  well  in  hand,  and  no  trouble 
was  anticipated.  The  agents  of  the  Department  of  Justice, 
however,  were  still  suspicious.  The  foreigners  had  plenty  of 
money.  Given  as  they  were  to  hoarding  their  savings  in  their 
homes,  the  local  banks  were  unable  to  say  if  they  were  draw 
ing  on  their  reserves  or  were  being  financed  from  the  outside. 

Shortly  before  the  mayoralty  election  trouble  broke  out  in 


308 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

the  western  end  of  the  state,  and  in  the  north,  in  the  steel 
towns.  There  were  ugly  riotings,  bombs  were  sent  through 
the  mails,  the  old  tactics  of  night  shootings  and  destruction  of 
property  began.  In  the  threatening  chaos  Baxter  and  Friend 
ship,  and  the  city  nearby,  stood  out  by  contrast  for  their  very 
orderliness.  The  state  constabulary  remained  in  diminished 
numbers,  a  still  magnificent  body  of  men  but  far  too  few  for 
any  real  emergency,  and  the  Federal  agents,  suspicious  but 
puzzled,  were  removed  to  more  turbulent  fields. 

The  men  constituting  the  Vigilance  Committee  began  to  feel 
a  sense  of  futility,  almost  of  absurdity.  They  had  armed  and 
enrolled  themselves — against  what?  The  growth  of  the  or 
ganization  slowed  down,  but  it  already  numbered  thousands 
of  members.  Only  its  leaders  retained  their  faith  in  its  ulti 
mate  necessity,  and  they  owed  perhaps  more  than  they  realized 
to  Willy  Cameron's  own  conviction. 

It  was  owing  to  him  that  the  city  was  divided  into  a  series 
of  zones,  so  that  notification  of  an  emergency  could  be  made 
rapidly  by  telephone  and  messenger.  Owin^  to  him,  too,  was 
a  new  central  office,  with  some  one  on  duty  day  and  night. 
Rather  ironically,  the  new  quarters  were  the  dismantled  rooms 
of  the  Myers  Housecleaning  Company. 

On  the  day  after  his  proposal  to  Edith,  Willy  Cameron  re 
ceived  an  unexpected  holiday.  Mrs.  Davis,  the  invalid  wife 
of  the  owner  of  the  Eagle  Pharmacy,  died  and  the  store  was 
closed.  He  had  seen  Edith  for  only  a  few  moments  that 
morning,  but  it  was  understood  then  that  the  marriage  would 
take  place  either  that  day  or  the  next. 

He  had  been  physically  so  weary  the  night  before  that  he 
had  slept,  but  the  morning  found  him  with  a  heaviness  of 
spirit  that  he  could  not  throw  off.  The  exaltation  of  the  night 
before  was  gone,  and  all  that  remained  was  a  dogged  sense 
of  a  duty  to  be  done.  Although  he  smiled  at  Edith,  his  face 
remained  with  her  all  through  the  morning. 

"I'll  make  it  up  to  him/'  she  thought,  humbly.  "Ill  make 
it  up  to  him  somehow." 

Then,  with  Ellen  out  doing  her  morning  marketing,  sh« 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 309 

heard  the  feeble  thump  of  a  cane  overhead  which  was  her 
mother's  signal.  She  was  determined  not  to  see  her  mother 
again  until  she  could  say  that  she  was  married,  but  the  thump 
ing  continued,  and  was  followed  by  the  crash  of  a  broken 
glass. 

"She's  trying1  to  get  up !"  Edith  thought,  panicky.  "If  she 
gets  up  it  will  kill  her." 

She  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  scarcely  breathing,  and 
listened.  There  was  a  dreadful  silence  above.  She  stole  up, 
finally,  to  where  she  could  see  her  mother.  Mrs.  Boyd  was 
still  in  her  bed,  but  lying  with  open  eyes,  unmoving. 

"Mother,"  she  called,  and  ran  in.     "Mother" 

Mrs.  Boyd  glanced  at  her. 

"I  thought  that  glass  wrould  bring  you,"  she  said  sharply,  but 
with  difficulty.  "I  want  you  to  stand  over  there  and  let  me 
look  at  you." 

Edith  dropped  on  her  knees  beside  the  bed,  and  caught  her 
mother's  hand. 

"Don't!  Don't  talk  like  that,  mother,"  she  begged.  "I 
know  what  you  mean.  It's  all  right,  mother.  Honestly  it  is. 
I — I'm  married,  mother." 

"You  wouldn't  lie  to  me,  Edith?" 

"No.  I'm  telling  you.  I've  been  married  a  long  time.  You 
— don't  you  worry,  mother.  You  just  lie  there  and  quit  worry 
ing.  It's  all  right." 

There  was  a  sudden  light  in  the  sick  woman's  eyes,  an  eager 
light  that  flared  up  and  died  away  again. 

"Who  to?"  she  asked.  "If  it's  some  corner  loafer,  Edie " 

Edith  had  gained  new  courage  and  new  facility.  Anything 
was  right  that  drove  the  tortured  look  from  her  mother's  eyes. 

"You  can  ask  him  when  he  comes  home  this  evening." 

"Edie!     Not  Willy?" 

"You've  guessed  it,"  said  Edith,  and  burying  her  face  in  the 
bed  clothing,  said  a  little  prayer,  to  be  forgiven  for  the  lie  and 
for  all  that  she  had  done,  to  be  more  worthy  thereafter,  and 
in  the  end  to  earn  the  love  of  the  man  who  was  like  God  to  her. 

There  are  lies  and  lies.    Now  and  then  the  Great  Recorder 


3 io A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

must  put  one  on  the  credit  side  of  the  balance,  one  that  has 
saved  intolerable  suffering,  or  has  made  well  and  happy  a  sick 
soul. 

Mrs.  Boyd  lay  back  and  closed  her  eyes. 

"I  haven't  been  so  tickled  since  the  day  you  were  born," 
she  said. 

She  put  out  a  thin  hand  and  laid  it  on  the  girl's  bowed  head. 
When  Edith  moved,  a  little  later,  her  mother  was  asleep,  with 
a  new  look  of  peace  on  her  face. 

It  was  necessary  before  Ellen  saw  her  mother  to  tell  her 
what  she  had  done.  She  shrank  from  doing  it.  It  was  one 
thing  for  Willy  to  have  done  it,  to  have  told  her  the  plan,  but 
Edith  was  secretly  afraid  of  Ellen.  And  Ellen's  reception  of 
the  news  justified  her  fears. 

"And  you'd  take  him  that  way!"  she  said,  scornfully. 
" You'd  hide  behind  him,  besides  spoiling  his  life  for  him !  It 
sounds  like  him  to  offer,  and  it's  like  you  to  accept/' 

"It's  to  save  mother,"  said  Edith,  meekly. 

"It's  to  save  yourself.  You  can't  fool  me.  And  if  you  think 
I'm  going  to  sit  by  and  let  him  do  it,  you  can  think  again." 

"It's  as  good  as  done,"  Edith  flashed.    "I've  told  mother." 

"That  you're  going  to  be,  or  that  you  are?" 

"That  we  are  married." 

"All  right,"  Ellen  said  triumphantly.  "She's  quiet  and 
peaceful  now,  isn't  she?  You  don't  have  to  get  married  now, 
do  you  ?  You  take  my  advice,  and  let  it  go  at  that." 

It  was  then  that  Edith  realized  what  she  had  done. 

He  would  still  marry  her,  of  course,  but  behind  all  his 
anxiety  to  save  frer  had  been  the  real  actuating  motive  of  his 
desire  to  relieve  her  mother's  mind.  That  was  done  now. 
Then,  could  she  let  him  sacrifice  himself  for  her? 

She  could.  She  could  and  she  would.  She  set  her  small 
mouth  firmly,  and  confronted  the  future;  she  saw  herself, 
without  his  strength  to  support  her,  going  down  and  down. 
She  remembered  those  drabs  of  the  street  on  whom  she  had 
turned  such  cynical  eyes  in  her  virtuous  youth,  and  she  saw 
herself  one  of  that  lost  sisterhood,  sodden,  hectic,  hopeless. 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 311 

The  very  instinct  of  self-preservation  cried  out  in  her  to 
hold  to  him. 

When  Willy  Cameron  left  the  pharmacy  that  day  it  was 
almost  noon.  He  went  to  the  house  of  mourning  first,  and 
found  Mr.  Davis  in  a  chair  in  a  closed  room,  a  tired  little  man 
in  a  new  black  necktie  around  a  not  over-clean  collar,  his 
occupation  of  years  gone,  confronting  a  new  and  terrible 
leisure  that  he  did  not  know  how  to  use. 

"You  know  how  it  is,  Willy,"  he  said,  blinking  his  reddened 
eyelids.  "You  kind  of  wish  sometimes  that  you  had  somebody 
to  help  you  bear  your  burden,  and  then  it's  taken  away,  but 
you're  kind  of  bent  over  and  used  to  it.  And  you'd  give  your 
neck  and  all  to  have  it  back." 

Willy  Cameron  pondered  that  on  his  way  up  the  street. 

There  was  one  great  longing  in  him,  to  see  Lily  again.  In 
a  few  hours  now  he  would  have  taken  a  wife,  and  whatever 
travesty  of  marriage  resulted,  he  would  have  to  keep  away 
from  Lily.  He  meant  to  play  square  with  Edith. 

He  wondered  if  it  would  hurt  Lily  to  see  him,  remind  her 
of  things  she  must  be  trying  to  forget.  He  decided  in  the  end 
that  it  would  hurt  her,  so  he  did  not  go.  But  he  walked,  on 
his  way  to  see  Pink  Denslow  at  the  temporary  bank,  through 
a  corner  of  the  park  near  the  house,  and  took  a  sort  or  formal 
and  heart-breaking  farewell  of  her. 

Time  had  been  when  life  had  seemed  only  a  long,  long  trail, 
witli  Lily  at  the  end  of  it  somewhere,  like  water  to  the  thirsty 
traveler,  or  home  to  the  wanderer;  like  a  camp  fire  at  night. 
But  now,  life  seemed  to  him  a  broad  highway,  infinitely 
crowded,  down  which  he  must  move,  surrounded  yet  alone. 

But  at  least  he  could  walk  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  in  the 
sunlight.  It  was  the  weaklings  who  were  crowded  to  the  side. 

He  threw  up  his  head. 

It  had  never  occurred  to  him  that  he  was  in  any  danger, 
either  from  Louis  Akers  or  from  the  unseen  enemy  he  was 
fighting.  He  had  a  curious  lack  of  physical  fear.  But  once 
or  twice  that  day,  as  he  went  about,  he  happened  to  notice  a 


312 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

small  man,  foreign  in  appearance  and  shabbily  dressed.  He 
saw  him  first  when  he  came  out  of  the  marriage  license  office, 
and  again  when  he  entered  the  bank. 

He  had  decided  to  tell  Pink  of  his  approaching  marriage, 
and  to  ask  him  to  be  present.  He  meant  to  tell  him  the  facts, 
The  intimacy  between  them  was  now  very  close,  and  he  felt 
that  Pink  would  understand.  He  neither  wanted  nor  ex 
pected  approval,  but  he  did  want  honesty  between  them.  He 
had  based  his  life  on  honesty. 

Yet  the  thing  was  curiously  hard  to  lead  up  to.  It  would 
be  hard  to  set  before  any  outsider  the  conditions  at  the  Boyd 
house,  or  his  own  sense  of  obligation  to  help.  Put  into  every 
day  English  the  whole  scheme  sounded  visionary  and  mock- 
heroic. 

In  the  end  he  did  not  tell  Pink  at  all,  for  Pink  came  in  with 
excitement  written  large  all  over  him. 

"I  sent  for  you,"  he  said,  "because  I  think  we've  got  some 
thing  at  last.  One  of  our  fellows  has  just  been  in,  that  store 
keeper  I  told  you  about  from  Friendship,  Cusick.  He  says  he 
has  found  out  where  they're  meeting,  back  in  the  hills.  He's 
made  a  map  of  it.  Look,  here's  the  town,  and  here's  the  big 
hill.  Well,  behind  it,  about  a  mile  and  a  half,  there's  a  German 
outfit,  a  family,  with  a  farm.  They're  using  the  barn,  according 
to  this  chap." 

"The  barn  wouldn't  hold  very  many  of  them." 

"That's  the  point.  It's  the  leaders.  The  family  has  an  alibi. 
It  goes  in  to  the  movies  in  the  town  on  meeting  nights.  The 
place  has  been  searched  twice,  but  he  says  they  have  a  system 
of  patrols  that  gives  them  warning.  The  hills  are  heavily 
wooded  there,  and  he  thinks  they  have  rigged  up  telephones 
in  the  trees." 

There  was  a  short  silence.    Willy  Cameron  studied  the  rug. 

"I  had  to  swear  to  keep  it  to  ourselv.es,"  Pink  said  at  last. 
"Cusick  won't  let  the  Federal  agents  in  on  it.  They've  raided 
him  for  liquor  twice,  and  he's  sick  as  a  poisoned  pup." 

"How  about  the  county  detectives  ?" 

"You  know  them.    They'll  go  in  and  fight  like  hell  when  the 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN  313 

time  comes,  but  they're  likely  to  gum  the  game  where  there's 
any  finesse  required.  We'd  better  find  out  for  ourselves  first." 

Willy  Cameron  smiled. 

"What  you  mean  is,  that  it's  too  good  a  thing  to  throw  to  the 
other  fellow.  Well,  I'm  on,  if  you  want  me.  But  I'm  no  de 
tective." 

Pink  had  come  armed  for  such  surrender.  He  produced  a 
road  map  of  the  county  and  spread  it  on  the  desk. 

"Here's  the  main  road  to  Friendship,"  he  said,  "and  here's 
the  road  they  use.  But  there's  another  way,  back  of  the  hills. 
Cusick  said  it  was  a  dirt  lane,  but  dry.  It's  about  forty  miles 
by  it  to  a  point  a  mile  or  so  behind  the  farm.  He  says  he 
doesn't  think  they  use  that  road.  It's  too  far  around." 

"All  right,"  said  Willy  Cameron.  "We  use  that  road,  and 
get  to  the  farm,  and  what  then  ?  Surrender  ?" 

"Not  on  your  life.    We  hide  in  the  barn.    That's  all." 

"That's  enough.  They'll  search  the  place,  automatically. 
You're  talking  suicide,  you  know." 

But  his  mind  was  working  rapidly.  He  was  a  country  boy, 
and  he  knew  barns.  There  would  be  other  outbuildings,  too, 
probably  a  number  of  them.  The  Germans  always  had  plenty 
of  them.  And  the  information  was  too  detailed  to  be  put  aside 
lightly. 

"When  does  he  think  they  will  meet  again?" 

"That's  the  point,"  Pink  said  eagerly.  "The  family  has 
been  all  over  the  town  this  morning.  It  is  going  on  a  picnic, 
and  he  says  those  picnics  of  theirs  last  half  the  night.  What 
he  got  from  the  noise  they  were  making  was  that  they  were 
raising  dust  again,  and  something's  on  for  to-night." 

"They'll  leave  somebody  there.  Their  stock  has  to  be  looked 
after." 

"This  fellow  says  they  drop  everything  and  go.  The  whole 
outfit.  They're  as  busy  raising  an  alibi  as  the  other  lot  is 
raising  the  devil." 

But  Willy  Cameron  was  a  Scot,  and  hard-headed. 

"It  looks  too  simple,  Pink,"  he  said  reflectively.  He  sat  for 
s"ome  time,  filling  and  lighting  his  pipe,  and  considering  as  he 


314 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

did  so.  He  was  older  than  Pink;  not  much,  but  he  felt  ex 
tremely  mature  and  very  responsible. 

"What  do  we  know  about  Cusick?"  he  asked,  finally. 

"One  of  the  best  men  we've  got.  They've  fired  his  place 
once,  and  he's  keen  to  get  them." 

"You're  anxious  to  go?" 

"I'm  going,"  said  Pink,  cheerfully. 

"Then  I'd  better  go  along  and  look  after  you.  But  I  tell 
you  how  I  see  it.  After  I've  done  that  I'll  go  as  far  as  you 
like.  Either  there  is  nothing  to  it  and  we're  fools  for  our 
pains,  or  there's  a  lot  to  it,  and  in  that  case  we  are  a  pair  of 
double-distilled  lunatics  to  go  there  alone." 

Pink  laughed  joyously. 

Life  had  been  very  dull  for  him  since  his  return  from 
France.  He  had  done  considerable  suffering  and  more  think 
ing  than  was  usual  with  him,  but  he  had  had  no  action.  But 
behind  his  boyish  zest  there  was  something  more,  something 
he  hid  as  he  did  the  fact  that  he  sometimes  said  his  prayers ; 
a  deep  and  holy  thing,  that  always  gave  him  a  lump  in  his 
throat  at  Retreat,  when  the  flag  came  slowly  down  and  the 
long  lines  of  men  stood  at  attention.  Something  he  was  half 
ashamed  and  half  proud  of,  love  of  his  country. 

At  the  same  time  another  conversation  was  going  on  in  the 
rear  room  of  a  small  printing  shop  in  the  heart  of  the  city. 
It  went  on  to  the  accompaniment  of  the  rhythmic  throb  of  the 
presses,  and  while  two  printers,  in  their  shirt  sleeves,  kept 
guard  both  at  the  front  and  rear  entrances. 

Doyle  sat  with  his  back  to  the  light,  and  seated  across  from 
him,  smoking  a  cheap  cigar,  was  the  storekeeper  from  Friend 
ship,  Cusick.  In  a  corner  on  the  table,  scowling,  sat  Louis 
Akers. 

"I  don't  know  why  you're  so  damned  suspicious,  Jim,"  he 
was  saying.  "Cusick  says  the  stall  about  the  Federal  agents 
went  all  right." 

"Like  a  house  a-fire,"  said  Cusick,  complacently. 

"I  think,  Akers,"  Doyle  observed,  eyeing  his  subordinate 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 315 

''that  you  are  letting  your  desire  to  get  this  Cameron  fellow 
run  away  with  your  judgment.  If  we  get  him  and  Denslow, 
there  are  a  hundred  ready  to  take  their  places." 

"Cameron  is  the  brains  of  the  outfit,"  Akers  said  sulkily. 

"How  do  you  know  Cameron  will  go?" 

Akers  rose  lazily  and  stretched  himself. 

"I've  got  a  hunch.    That's  all." 

A  girl  came  in  from  the  composing  room,  a  bundle  of  proofs 
in  her  hand.  With  one  hand  Akers  took  the  sheets  from  her; 
with  the  other  he  settled  his  tie.  He  smiled  down  at  her. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

ELLEN  was  greatly  disturbed.    At  three  o'clock  that  after 
noon  she  found  Edith  and  announced  her  intention  of  go 
ing  out. 

"I  guess  you  can  get  the  supper  for  once,"  she  said  un 
graciously. 

Edith  looked  up  at  her  with  wistful  eyes. 

"I  wish  you  didn't  hate  me  so,  Ellen." 

"I  don't  hate  you."  Ellen  was  slightly  mollified.  "But  when 
I  see  you  trying  to  put  your  burdens  on  other  people " 

Edith  got  up  then  and  rather  timidly  put  her  arms  around 
Ellen's  neck. 

"I  love  him  so,  Ellen,"  she  whispered,  "and  I'll  try  so  hard 
to  make  him  happy." 

Unexpected  tears  came  into  Ellen's  eyes.  She  stroked  the 
girl's  fair  hair. 

"Never  mind,"  she  said.  "The  Good  Man's  got  a  way  of  fix 
ing  things  to  suit  Himself.  And  I  guess  He  knows  best.  We 
do  what  it's  foreordained  we  do,  after  all." 

Mrs.  Boyd  was  sleeping.  Edith  went  back  to  her  sewing. 
She  had  depended  all  her  life  on  her  mother's  needle,  and  now 
that  that  had  failed  her  she  was  hastily  putting  some  clothing 
into  repair.  In  the  kitchen  near  the  stove  the  suit  she  meant 
to  be  married  in  was  hung  to  dry,  after  pressing.  She  was 
quietly  happy. 

Willy  Cameron  found  her  there.  He  told  her  of  Mrs.  Davis' 
death,  and  then  placed  the  license  on  the  table  at  her  side. 

"I  think  it  would  be  better  to-morrow,  Edith,"  he  said.  He 
glanced  down  at  the  needle  in  her  unaccustomed  ringers ;  she 
seemed  very  appealing,  with  her  new  task  and  the  new  light 
in  her  eyes.  After  all,  it  was  worth  while,  even  if  it  cost  a  life 
time,  to  take  a  soul  out  of  purgatory. 

"I  had  to  tell  mother,  Willy." 

316 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 317 

"That's  all  right    Did  it  cheer  her  any?" 

"Wonderfully.    She's  asleep  now." 

He  went  up  to  his  room,  and  for  some  time  she  heard  him 
moving  about.  Then  she  heard  the  scraping  of  his  chair  as 
he  drew  it  to  his  desk,  and  vaguely  wondered.  When  he  came 
down  he  had  a  sealed  envelope  in  his  hand. 

"I  am  going  out,  Edith,"  he  said.  "I  shall  be  late  getting 
back,  and — I  am  going  to  ask  you  to  do  something  for  me." 

She  loved  doing  things  for  him.    She  flushed  slightly. 

"If  I  am  not  back  here  by  two  o'clock  to-night,"  he  said,  "I 
want  you  to  open  that  letter  and  read  it.  Then  go  to  the  near 
est  telephone,  and  call  up  the  number  I've  written  down.  Ask 
for  the  man  whose  name  is  given,  and  read  him  the  message." 

"Willy!"  she  gasped.  "You  are  doing  something  danger 
ous  !" 

"What  I  really  expect,"  he  said,  smiling  down  at  her,  "is  to 
be  back,  feeling  more  or  less  of  a  fool,  by  eleven  o'clock.  I'm 
providing  against  an  emergency  that  will  almost  surely  never 
happen,  and  I  am  depending  on  the  most  trustworthy  person* 
I  know." 

Very  soon  after  that  he  went  away.  She  sat  for  some  time 
after  he  had  gone,  fingering  the  blank  white  envelope  and 
wondering,  a  little  frightened  but  very  proud  of  his  trust. 

Dan  came  in  and  went  up  the  stairs.  That  reminded  her  of 
the  dinner,  and  she  sat  down  in  the  kitchen  with  a  pan  of  po 
tatoes  on  her  knee.  As  she  pared  them  she  sang.  She  was 
still  singing  when  Ellen  came  back. 

Something  had  happened  to  Ellen.  She  stood  in  the  kitchen, 
her  hat  still  on,  drawing  her  cotton  gloves  through  her  fin 
gers  and  staring-  at  Edith  without  seeing  her. 

"You're  not  sick,  are  you,  Ellen?" 

Ellen  put  down  her  gloves  and  slowly  took  off  her  hat,  still 
with  the  absorbed  eyes  of  a  sleep-walker. 

"I'm  not  sick,"  she  said  at  last.    "I've  had  bad  news." 

"Sit  down  and  I'll  make  you  a  cup  of  tea.  Then  maybe 
you'll  feel  like  talking  about  it." 


3i8 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

"I  don't  want  any  tea.  Do  you  know  that  that  man  Akers 
has  married  Lily  Cardew?" 

"Married  her  i" 

"The  devil  out  of  hell  that  he  is."  Ellen's  voice  was  terrible. 

"And  all  the  time  knowing  that  you She's  at  home,  the 

poor  child,  and  Mademoiselle  just  sat  and  cried  when  she  told 
me.  It's  a  secret,"  she  added,  fiercely.  "You  keep  your  mouth 
shut  about  it.  She  never  lived  with  him.  She  left  him  right 
off.  I  wouldn't  know  it  now  but  the  servants  were  talking 
about  the  house  being  forbidden  to  him,  and  I  went  straight 
to  Mademoiselle.  I  said :  'You  keep  him  away  from  Miss  Lily, 
because  I  know  something  about  him.'  It  was  when  I  told  her 
that  she  said  they  were  married." 

She  went  out  and  up  the  stairs,  moving  slowly  and  heavily. 

Edith  sat  still,  the  pan  on  her  knee,  and  thought.  Did  Willy 
know  ?  Was  that  why  he  was  willing  to  marry  her  ?  She  was 
swept  with  bitter  jealousy,  and  added  to  that  came  suspicion. 
Something  very  near  the  truth  flashed  into  her  mind  and  stayed 
there.  In  her  bitterness  she  saw  Willy  telling  Lily  of  Akers 
and  herself,  and  taking  her  away,  or  having  her  taken.  It 
must  have  been  something  like  that,  or  why  had  she  left  him  ? 

But  her  anger  slowly  subsided ;  in  the  end  she  began  to  feel 
that  the  new  situation  rendered  her  own  position  more  secure, 
even  justified  her  own  approaching  marriage.  Since  Lily  was 
gone,  why  should  she  not  marry  Willy  Cameron?  If  what 
Ellen  had  said  was  true  she  knew  him  well  enough  to  know 
that  he  would  deliberately  strangle  his  love  for  Lily.  If  it 
were  true,  and  if  he  knew  it. 

She  moved  about  the  kitchen,  making  up  the  fire,  working 
automatically  in  that  methodless  way  that  always  set  Ellen's 
teeth  on  edge,  and  thinking.    But  subconsciously  she  was  listen-  • 
ing,  too.     She  had  heard  Dan  go  into  his  mother's  room  and: 
close  the  door.     She  was  bracing  herself  against  his  coming: 
down. 

Dan  was  difficult  those  days,  irritable  and  exacting.  Moody, , 
too,  and  much  away  from  home.  He  hated  idleness  at  its  best, , 
and  the  strike  was  idleness  at  its  worst.  Behind  the  movement! 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 319 

toward  the  general  strike,  too,  he  felt  there  was  some  hidden 
and  sinister  influence  at  work,  an  influence  that  was  deter 
mined  to  turn  what  had  commenced  as  a  labor  movement  into 
a  class  uprising. 

That  very  afternoon,  for  the  first  time,  he  had  heard  whis 
pered  the  phrase:  "when  the  town  goes  dark."  There  was  a 
diabolical  suggestion  in  it  that  sent  him  home  with  his  fists 
clenched. 

He  did  not  go  to  his  mother's  room  at  once.  Instead,  he 
drew  a  chair  to  his  window  and  sat  there  staring  out  on  the 
little  street.  When  the  town  went  dark,  what  about  all  the 
little  streets  like  this  one? 

After  an  hour  or  so  of  ominous  quiet  Edith  heard  him  go 
into  his  mother's  room.  Her  hands  trembled  as  she  closed 
her  door. 

She  heard  him  coming  down  at  last,  and  suddenly  remember 
ing  the  license,  hid  it  in  a  drawer.  She  knew  that  he  would 
destroy  it  if  he  saw  it.  And  Dan's  face  justified  the  move. 
He  came  in  and  stood  glowering  at  her,  his  hands  in  his 
pockets. 

"What  made  you  tell  that  lie  to  mother?"  he  demanded, 

"She  was  worried,  Dan.  And  it  will  be  true  to-morrow. 
You — Dan,  you  didn't  tell  her  it  was  a  lie,  did  you?" 

"I  should  have,  but  I  didn't.  What  do  you  mean,  it  will  be 
true  to-morrow?" 

"We  are  going  to  be  married  to-morrow/' 

"I'll  lock  you  up  first/'  he  said,  angrily.  "I've  been  expect 
ing  something  like  that.  I've  watched  you,  and  I've  seen  you 
watching  him.  You'll  not  do  it,  do  you  hear?  D'you  think 
I'd  let  you  get  away  with  that  ?  Isn't  it  enough  that  he's  got 
to  support  us,  without  your  coaxing  him  to  marry  you  ?" 

She  made  no  reply,  but  went  on  with  a  perfunctory  laying 
of  the  table.  Her  mouth  had  gone  very  dry. 

"The  poor  fish,"  Dan  snarled.  "I  thought  he  had  some 
sense.  Letting  himself  in  for  a  nice  life,  isn't  he?  We're  not 
his  kind,  and  you  know  it.  He  knows  more  in  a  minute  than 


320  A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

you'll  know  all  your  days.  In  about  three  months  he'll  hate 
the  very  sight  of  you,  and  then  where'll  you  be?" 

When  she  made  no  reply,  he  called  to  the  dog  and  went  out 
into  the  yard.  She  saw  him  there,  brooding  and  sullen,  and 
she  knew  that  he  had  not  finished.  He  would  say  no  more  to 
her,  but  he  would  wait  and  have  it  out  with  Willy  himself. 

Supper  was  silent.  No  one  ate  much,  and  Ellen,  coming 
down  with  the  tray,  reported  Mrs.  Boyd  as  very  tired,  and 
wanting  to  settle  down  early. 

"She  looks  bad  to  me,"  she  said  to  Edith.  "I  think  the 
doctor  ought  to  see  her." 

"I'll  go  and  send  him." 

Edith  was  glad  to  get  out  of  the  house.  She  had  avoided 
the  streets  lately,  but  as  it  was  the  supper  hour  the  pavements 
were  empty.  Only  Joe  Wilkinson,  bare-headed,  stood  in  the 
next  doorway,  and  smiled  and  flushed  slightly  when  he  saw 
her. 

"How's  your  mother?"  he  asked. 

"She's  not  so  well.     I'm  going  to  get  the  doctor/' 

"Do  you  mind  if  I  get  my  hat  and  walk  there  with  you?" 

"I'm  going  somewhere  else  from  there,  Joe." 

"Well,  I'll  walk  a  block  or  two,  anyhow." 

She  waited  impatiently.  She  liked  Joe,  but  she  did  not  want 
him  then.  She  wanted  to  think  and  plan  alone  and  in  the  open 
air,  away  from  the  little  house  with  its  odors  and  its  querulous 
thumping  cane  upstairs;  away  from  Ellen's  grim  face  and 
Dan's  angry  one. 

He  came  out  almost  immediately,  followed  by  a  string  of 
little  Wilkinsons,  clamoring  to  go  along. 

"Do  you  mind?"  he  asked  her.  "They  can  trail  along  be 
hind.  The  poor  kids  don't  get  out  much." 

"Bring  them  along,  of  course,"  she  said,  somewhat  resign 
edly.  And  with  a  flash  of  her  old  spirit:  "I  might  have 
brought  Jinx,  too.  Then  we'd  have  had  a  real  procession." 

They  moved  down  the  street,  with  five  little  Wilkinsons 
trailing  along  behind,  and  Edith  was  uncomfortably  aware 
that  Joe's  eyes  were  upon  her. 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 321 

"You  don't  look  well,"  he  said  at  last.     "You're  wearing 
yourself  out  taking  care  of  your  mother,  Edith." 

"I  don't  do  much  for  her." 

"You'd  say  that,  of  course.     You're  very  unselfish." 

"Am  I?"    She  laughed  a  little,  but  the  words  touched  her. 
"Don't  think  I'm  better  than  I  am,  Joe." 

"You're  the  most  wonderful  girl  in  the  world.  I  guess  you 
know  how  I  feel  about  that." 

"Don't  Joe !" 

But  at  that  moment  a  very  little  Wilkinson  fell  headlong 
and  burst  into  loud,  despairing  wails.  Joe  set  her  on  her  feet, 
'  brushed  her  down  with  a  fatherly  hand,  and  on  her  refusal  to 
iwalk  further  picked  her  up  and  carried  her.  The  obvious 
!  impossibility  of  going  on  with  what  he  had  been  saying  made 
him  smile  sheepishly. 

"Can  you  beat  it?"  he  said  helplessly,  "these  darn  kids — !" 
But  he  held  the  child  close. 

At  the  next  corner  he  turned  toward  home.  Edith  stopped 
and  watched  his  valiant  young  back,  his  small  train  of  follow- 
;ers.  He  was  going  to  be  very  sad  when  he  knew,  poor  Joe, 
•with  his  vicarious  fatherhood,  his  cluttered,  noisy,  anxious 
life. 

Life  was  queer.     Queer  and  cruel. 

From  the  doctor's  office,  the  waiting  room  lined  with  patient 

jfigures,  she  went  on.     She  had  a  very  definite  plan  in  mind, 

jbut  it  took  all  her  courage  to  carry  it  through.     Outside  the 

(Benedict  Apartments  she  hesitated,   but  she  went  in  finally, 

jrupheld  by  sheer  determination. 

The  chair  at  the  telephone  desk  was  empty,  but  Sam  remem 
bered  her. 

"He's  out,  miss,"  he  said.    "He's  out  most  all  the  time  now, 

ith  the  election  coming  on." 

"What  time  does  he  usually  get  in?" 

"Sometimes  early,  sometimes  late,"  said  Sam,  watching  her. 

verything  pertaining  to  Louis  Akers  was  of  supreme  interest 
hose  days  to  the  Benedict  employees.     The  beating  he  had 
jreceived,  the  coming  election,  the  mysterious  young  woman 


322 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

who  had  come  but  once,  and  the  black  days  that  had  followed 
his  return  from  the  St.  Elmo — out  of  such  patchwork  they 
were  building  a  small  drama  of  their  own.  Sam  was  trying 
to  fit  in  Edith's  visit  with  the  rest. 

The  Benedict  was  neither  more  moral  nor  less  than  its 
kind.  An  unwritten  law  kept  respectable  women  away,  but 
the  management  showed  no  inclination  to  interfere  where  there 
was  no  noise  or  disorder.  Employees  were  supposed  to  see 
that  no  feminine  visitors  remained  after  midnight,  that  was 
all. 

"You  might  go  up  and  wait  for  him,"  Sam  suggested.  "That 
is,  if  it's  important." 

"It's  very  important." 

He  threw  open  the  gate  of  the  elevator  hospitably. 

At  half  past  ten  that  night  Louis  Akers  went  back  to  his 
rooms.  The  telephone  girl  watched  him  sharply  as  he  entered. 

"There's  a  lady  waiting  for  you,  Mr.  Akers." 

He  swung  toward  her  eagerly. 

"A  lady?    Did  she  give  any  name?" 

"No.  Sam  let  her  in  and  took  her  up.  He  said  he  thought 
you  wouldn't  mind.  She'd  been  here  before." 

The  thought  of  Edith  never  entered  Akers'  head.  It  was 
Lily,  Lily  miraculously  come  back  to  him.  Lily,  his  wife. 

Going  up  in  the  elevator  he  hastily  formulated  a  plan  of 
action.  He  would  not  be  too  ready  to  forgive ;  she  had  cost 
him  too  much.  But  in  the  end  he  would  take  her  in  his  arms 
and  hold  her  close.  Lily !  Lily ! 

It  was  the  bitterness  of  his  disappointment  that  made  him 
brutal.  Wicked  and  unscrupulous  as  he  was  with  men,  with 
women  he  was  as  gentle  as  he  was  cruel.  He  put  them  from 
him  relentlessly  and  kissed  them  good-by.  It  was  his  boast 
that  any  one  of  them  would  come  back  to  him  if  he  wanted 
her. 

Edith,  listening  for  his  step,  was  startled  at  the  change  in 
his  face  when  he  saw  her. 

"You!"  he  said  thickly.    "What  are  you  doing  here?" 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 323 

"I've  been  waiting  all  evening.  I  want  to  ask  you  some 
thing." 

He  flung  his  hat  into  a  chair  and  faced  her. 

"Well?" 

"Is  it  true  that  you  are  married  to  Lily  Cardew?" 

"If  I  am,  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?"  His  eyes 
were  wary,  but  his  color  was  coming  back.  He  was  breath 
ing  more  easily. 

"I  only  heard  it  to-day.  I  must  know,  Lou.  It's  awfully 
important." 

"What  did  you  hear  ?"    He  was  watching  her  closely. 

"I  heard  you  were  married,  but  that  she  had  left  you." 

It  seemed  to  him  incredible  that  she  had  come  there  to 
taunt  him,  she  who  was  responsible  for  the  shipwreck  of  his 
marriage.  That  she  could  come  there  and  face  him,  and  not 
expect  him  to  kill  her  where  she  stood. 

He  pulled  himself  together. 

"It's  true  enough."  He  swore  under  his  breath.  "She  didn't 

leave  me.  She  was  taken  away.  And  I'll  get  her  back  if  I 

You  little  fool,  I  ought  to  kill  you.  If  you  wanted  a  cheap 
revenge,  you've  got  it." 

"I  don't  want  revenge,  Lou." 

He  caught  her  by  the  arm. 

"Then  what  brought  you  here  ?" 

"I  wanted  to  be  sure  Lily  Cardew  was  married." 

"Well,  she  is.    What  about  it?" 

."That's  all." 

"That's  not  all.    WThat  about  it?" 

She  looked  up  at  him  gravely. 

"Because,  if  she  is,  I  am  going  to  marry  Mr.  Cameron  to 
morrow."  At  the  sight  of  his  astounded  face  she  went  on 
hastily:  "He  knows,  Lou,  and  he  offered  anyhow." 

"And  what,"  he  said  slowly,  "has  my  wife  to  do  with  that  ?" 

"I  wanted  to  be  fair  to  him.  And  I  think  he  is — I  think  he 
used  to  be  terribly  in  love  with  her." 

Quite  apart  from  his  increasing  fear  of  Willy  Cameron  and 
his  Committee,  there  had  been  in  Akers  for  some  time  a  latent 


324  A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

jealousy  of  him.  In  a  flash  he  saw  the  room  at  the  Saint 
Elmo,  and  a  cold-eyed  man  inside  the  doorway.  The  humilia 
tion  of  that  scene  had  never  left  him,  of  his  own  maudlin 
inadequacy,  of  hearing  from  beyond  a  closed  and  locked  door, 
the  closinj  of  another  door  behind  Lily  and  the  man  who  had 
taken  her  away  from  him.  A  mad  anger  and  jealousy  made 
him  suddenly  reckless. 

"So/'  he  said,  "he  is  terribly  in  love  with  my  wife,  and  he 
intends  to  marry  you.  That's — interesting.  Because,  my 
sweet  child,  he's  got  a  damn  poor  chance  of  marrying  you,  or 
anybody." 

"Lou !" 

"Listen,"  he  said  deliberately.  "Men  who  stick  their  heads 
into  the  lion's  jaws  are  apt  to  lose  them.  Our  young  friend 
Cameron  has  done  that.  I'll  change  the  figure.  When  a 
man  tries  to  stop  a  great  machine  by  putting  his  impudent 
ringers  into  the  cog  wheels,  the  man's  a  fool.  He  may  lose  his 
hand,  or  he  may  lose  his  life." 

Fortunately  for  Edith  he  moved  on  that  speech  to  the  side 
table,  and  mixed  himself  a  highball.  It  gave  her  a  moment 
to  summon  her  scattered  wits,  to  decide  on  a  plan  of  action. 
Her  early  training  on  the  streets,  her  recent  months  of  deceit, 
helped  her  now.  If  he  had  expected  any  outburst  from  her 
it  did  not  come. 

"If  you  mean  that  he  is  in  danger,  I  don't  believe  it." 

"All  right,  old  girl.     I've  told  you." 

But  the  whiskey  restored  his  equilibrium  again. 

"That  is,"  he  added  slowly,  "I've  warned  you.  You'd  better 
warn  him.  He's  doing  his  best  to  get  into  trouble." 

She  knew  him  well,  saw  the  craftiness  come  back  into  his 
eyes,  and  met  it  with  equal  strategy. 

"I'll  tell  him,"  she  said,  moving  toward  the  door.     "You 
haven't  scared  me  for  a  minute  and  you  won't  scare  him.. 
You  and  your  machine !" 

She  dared  not  seem  to  hurry. 

"You're  a  boaster,"  she  said,  with  the  door  open.     "Yom 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 325 

always  were.  And  you'll  never  lay  a  hand  on  him.  You're  like 
all  bullies ;  you're  a  coward !" 

She  was  through  the  doorway  by  that  time,  and  in  terror 
for  fear,  having  told  her  so  much,  he  would  try  to  detain  her. 
She  saw  the  idea  come  into  his  face,  too,  just  as  she  slipped 
outside.  He  made  a  move  toward  her. 

"I  think "  he  began. 

She  slammed  the  door  and  ran  down  the  hallway  toward 
the  stairs.  She  heard  him  open  the  door  and  come  out  into 
the  hall,  but  she  was  well  in  advance  and  running  like  a  deer. 

"Edith !"  he  called. 

She  stumbled  on  the  second  flight  of  stairs  and  fell  a  half- 
dozen  steps,  but  she  picked  herself  up  and  ran  on.  At  the 
bottom  of  the  lower  flight  she  stopped  and  listened,  but  he 
had  gone  back.  She  heard  the  slam  of  his  door  as  he  closed  it. 

But  the  insistent  need  of  haste  drove  her  on,  headlong.  She 
shot  through  the  lobby,  past  the  staring  telephone  girl,  and 
into  the  street,  and  there  settled  down  into  steady  running, 
her  elbows  close  to  her  sides,  trying  to  remember  to  breathe 
slowly  and  evenly.  She  must  get  home  somehow,  get  the  en 
velope  and  follow  the  directions  inside.  Her  thoughts  raced 
with  her.  It  was  almost  eleven  o'clock  and  Willy  had  been 
gone  for  hours.  She  tried  to  pray,  but  the  words  did  not  come. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

AT  something  after  seven  o'clock  that  night  Willy  Cameron 
and  Pink  Denslow  reached  that  point  on  the  Mayville 
Road  which  had  been  designated  by  the  storekeeper,  Cusick. 
They  left  the  car  there,  hidden  in  a  grove,  and  struck  off 
across  country  to  the  west.  Willy  Cameron  had  been  thought 
ful  for  some  time,  and  as  they  climbed  a  low  hill,  going  with 
extreme  caution,  he  said : 

"I'm  still  skeptical  about  Cusick,  Pink.  Do  you  think  he's 
straight  ?" 

"One  of  the  best  men  we've  got,"  Pink  replied,  confidently. 
"He's  put  us  on  to  several  things." 

"He's  foreign  born,  isn't  he  ?" 

"That's  his  value.    They  don't  suspect  him  for  a  minute." 

"But — what  does  he  get  out  of  it?" 

"Good  citizen,"  said  Pink,  with  promptness.  "You've  got  to 
remember,  Cameron,  that  a  lot  of  these  fellows  are  better 
Americans  than  we  are.  They're  like  religious  converts, 
stronger  than  the  ones  born  in  the  fold.  They're  Americans 
because  they  want  to  be.  Anyhow,  you  ought  to  be  strong 
for  him,  Cameron.  He  said  to  tell  you,  but  no  one  else." 

"I'll  tell  you  how  strong  I  am  for  him  later,"  Willy  Cameron 
said,  grimly.  "Just  at  this  minute  I'm  waiting  to  be  shown." 

They  advanced  with  infinite  caution,  for  the  evening  was 
still  light.  Going  slowly,  it  was  well  after  eight  and  fairly 
dark  before  they  came  within  sight  of  the  farm  buildings  in 
the  valley  below.  Long  unpainted,  they  were  barely  discernible 
in  the  shadows  of  the  hills.  The  land  around  had  been  care 
fully  cleared,  and  both  men  were  dismayed  at  the  difficulty  of 
access  without  being  seen. 

"Doesn't  look  very  good,  does  it?"  Pink  observed.  "I  will 
say  this,  for  seclusion  and  keeping  away  unwanted  visitors, 
it  has  it  all  over  any  dug-out  I  ever  saw  in  France." 

326 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 327 

"Listen  !"  Willy  Cameron  said,  tensely. 

They  stood  on  the  alert,  but  only  the  evening  sounds  of 
country  and  forest  rewarded  them. 

"What  was  it?"  Pink  inquired,  after  perhaps  two  minutes 
of  waiting. 

"Plain  scare  on  my  part,  probably.  I  don't  so  much  mind 
this  little  excursion,  Pink,  as  I  hate  the  idea  that  a  certain 
gentleman  named  Cusick  may  have  a  chance  to  come  to  our 
funerals  and  laugh  himself  to  death." 

When  real  darkness  had  fallen,  they  had  reached  the  lower 
fringe  of  the  woods.  Pink  had  the  fault  of  the  city  dweller, 
however,  of  being  unable  to  step  lightly  in  the  dark,  and  their 
progress  had  been  less  silent  than  it  should  have  been.  In 
spite  of  his  handicap,  WTilly  Cameron  made  his  way  with  the 
instinctive  knowledge  of  the  country  bred  boy,  treading  like  a 
cat. 

"Pretty  poor,"  Pink  said  in  a  discouraged  whisper,  after  a 
twig  had  burst  under  his  foot  with  a  report  like  the  shot  of 
a  pistol.  "You  travel  like  a  spook,  while  I " 

"Listen,  Pink.  I'm  going  in  alone  to  look  around.  Stop 
muttering  and  listen  to  me.  It's  poor  strategy  not  to  have  a 
reserve  somewhere,  isn't  it?" 

"I'm  a  poor  prune  at  the  best,"  Pink  said  stubbornly,  "but  I 
am  not  going  to  let  you  go  into  that  place  alone.  You  can 
rave  all  you  want." 

"Very  well.  Then  we'll  both  stay  here.  You  are  about  as 
quiet  as  a  horse  going  through  a  corn  patch." 

After  some  moments  Pink  spoke  again. 

"If  you  insist  on  stealing  the  whole  show,"  he  said,  sulkily, 
"what  am  I  to  do?  Run  to  town  for  help,  if  you  need  it?" 

"I'm  not  going  to  round  up  the  outfit,  if  there  is  one.  I 
haven't  lost  my  mind.  I'll  see  what  is  going  on,  or  about  to 
go  on.  Then  I'll  come  back." 

"Here?" 

Cameron  considered. 

"Better  meet  at  the  machine,"  he  decided,  after  a  glance  at 
the  sky.  "In  half  an  hour  you  won't  be  able  to  see  your  hand 


328 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

in  front  of  you.  Wait  here  for  a  half-hour  or  so,  and  then 
start  back,  and  for  heaven's  sake  don't  shoot  at  anything  you 
see  moving.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  might  as  well  have  your 
revolver.  I  won't  need  it,  but  it  may  avoid  any  accidental 
shooting  by  a  youth  I  both  love  and  admire !" 

"If  I  hear  any  shooting,  I'll  come  in,"  Pink  said,  still  sulky. 

"Come  in  and  welcome,"  said  Willy  Cameron,  and  Pink 
knew  he  was  smiling. 

He  took  the  revolver  and  slipped  away  into  the  darkness, 
leaving  Pink  both  melancholy  and  disturbed.  Unaccustomed 
to  night  in  the  woods,  he  found  his  nerves  twitching  at  every 
sound.  In  the  war  there  had  been  a  definite  enemy,  definitely 
placed.  Even  when  he  had  gone  into  that  vile  strip  between 
the  trenches,  there  had  been  a  general  direction  for  the  inimi 
cal.  Here 

He  moved  carefully,  and  stood  with  his  back  against  a  tree. 

Not  a  sound  came  from  the  farm  buildings.  Willy  Camer 
on's  progress,  too,  was  noiseless.  With  no  way  to  tell  the  lapse 
of  time,  and  gauging  it  by  his  war  experience,  when  an  hour 
had  apparently  passed  by,  he  knew  that  Cameron  had  been 
gone  about  ten  minutes. 

Time  dragged  on.  A  cow,  unmilked,  lowed  plaintively  once 
or  twice.  A  September  night  breeze  set  the  dying  leaves  on 
the  trees  to  rustling,  and  stirred  the  dried  ones  about  his  feet. 
Pink's  mind,  gradually  reassured,  turned  to  other  things.  He 
thought  of  Lily  Cardew,  for  one.  Like  Willy  Cameron,  he 
knew  he  would  always  love  her,  but  unlike  Willy,  the  first 
pain  of  her  loss  was  gone.  He  was  glad  that  time  was  over. 
He  was  glad  that  she  was  at  home  again,  safe  from  those — — • 

Some  one  was  moving  near  him,  passing  within  twenty  feet. 
Whoever  it  was  was  stepping  cautiously  but  blunderingly.  It 
was  not  Cameron,  then.  He  was  a  footfall  only,  not  even  an 
outline.  Before  Pink  could  decide  on  a  line  of  acti  n,  the 
sound  was  lost. 

Every  sense  acute,  he  waited.  He  had  decided  that  if  the 
incident  were  repeated,  he  would  make  an  effort  to  get  the 
fellow  from  behind,  but  there  was  no  return.  The  wind  had 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 329 

died  again,  and  there  was  no  longer  even  the  rustling  of  the 
leaves  to  break  the  utter  stillness. 

Suddenly  he  saw  a  red  flash  near  the  barn,  arid  an  instant 
later  heard  the  report  of  a  pistol.  Came  immediately  after 
that  a  brief  fusillade  of  shots,  a  pause,  then  two  or  three  scat 
tering  ones. 

With  the  first  shot  Pink  started  running.  He  was  vaguely 
conscious  of  other  steps  near  him,  running  also,  but  he  could 
see  nothing.  His  whole  mind  was  set  on  finding  Willy  Cam 
eron.  Alone  he  had  not  a  chance,  but  two  of  them  together 
could  put  up  a  fight.  He  pelted  along,  stumbling,  recovering, 
stumbling  again. 

Another  shot  was  fired.  They  hadn't  got  him  yet,  or  they 
wouldn't  be  shooting.  He  raised  his  voice  in  a  great  call. 

"Cameron  !    Here !    Cameron !" 

He  ran  into  a  low  fence 'then,  and  it  threw  him.  He  had 
hardly  got  to  his  knees  before  the  other  running  figure  had 
hurled  itself  on  him,  and  struck  him  with  the  butt  of  a  re 
volver.  He  dropped  flat  and  lay  still. 

For  weeks  Woslosky  had  known  of  the  growing  strength  of 
the  Vigilance  Committee,  and  that  it  was  arming  steadily. 

It  threatened  absolutely  the  success  of  his  plans.  Even 
the  election  of  Akers  and  the  changes  he  would  make  in  the 
city  police;  even  the  ruse  of  other  strikes  and  machine-made 
riotings  to  call  away  the  state  troops, — none  of  these,  or  all  of 
them,  would  be  effectual  against  an  organized  body  of  citizens, 
duly  called  to  the  emergency. 

And  such  an  organization  was  already  effected.  Within  a 
week,  when  the  first  card  reached  his  hands,  it  had  grown  to 
respectable  proportions.  Woslosky  went  to  Doyle,  and  they 
made  their  counter-moves  quickly.  No  more  violence.  A 
seemingly  real  but  deceptive  orderliness.  They  were  dealing 
with  inflammatory  material,  however,  and  now  and  then  it  got 
out  of  hand.  Unlike  Doyle  the  calculating,  who  made  each 
move  slowly  and  watched  its  results  with  infinite  zest,  the 
Pole  chafed  under  delay. 


330 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

"We  can't  hold  them  much  longer,"  he  complained,  bitterly. 
"This  thing  of  holding  them  off  until  after  the  election — and 
until  Akers  takes  office — it's  got  too  many  ifs  in  it." 

"It  was  haste  lost  Seattle,"  said  Doyle,  as  unmoved  as  Wos- 
losky  was  excited. 

Woslosky  did  not  like  Louis  Akers.  What  was  more  im 
portant,  he  distrusted  him.  When  he  heard  of  his  engagement 
to  Lily  Cardew  he  warned  Doyle  about  him. 

"He's  in  this  thing  for  what  he  can  get  out  of  it,"  he  said. 
"He'll  go  as  far  as  he  can,  with  safety,  to  be  accepted  by  the 
Cardews." 

"Exactly,"  was  Doyle's  dry  comment,  "with  safety,  you 
said.  Well,  he  knows  you  and  he  knows  me,  and  he'll  be 
straight  because  he's  afraid  not  to  be." 

"When  there's  a  woman  in  it !"  said  the  Pole,  skeptically. 

But  Doyle  only  smiled.  He  had  known  many  women  and 
loved  none  of  them,  and  he  was  temperamentally  unable  to 
understand  the  type  of  man  who  saw  the  world  through  a 
woman's  eyes  and  in  them. 

So  Woslosky  was  compelled  to  watch  the  growth  of  Willy 
Cameron's  organization,  and  to  hold  in  check  the  violent  pas 
sions  he  had  himself  roused,  and  to  wait,  gnawing  his  nails 
with  inaction  and  his  heart  with  rage.  But  these  certain  things 
he  discovered : 

That  the  organization's  growth  was  coincident  with  a  new 
interest  in  local  politics,  as  though  some  vital  force  had  wak 
ened  the  plain  people  to  a  sense  of  responsibility. 

That  a  drug  clerk  named  Cameron  was  the  founder  and 
moving  spirit  of  the  league,  and  that  he  was,  using  Hendricks' 
candidacy  as  a  means,  rousing  the  city  to  a  burning  patriotic 
activity  that  Mr.  Woslosky  regarded  as  extremely  pernicious. 

And  that  this  same  Willy  Cameron  had  apparently  a  knowl 
edge  of  certain  plans,  which  was  rather  worse  than  pernicious. 
Mr.  Woslosky's  name  for  it  was  damnable. 

For  instance,  there  were  the  lists  of  the  various  city  stores 
and  their  estimated  contents,  missing  from  Mr.  Woslosky's 
own  inconspicuous  trunk  in  a  storage  house.  On  that  had 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN  331 

been  based  the  plan  for  feeding  the  revolution,  by  the  simple 
expedient  of  exchanging  by  organized  pillage  the  contents  of 
the  city  stores  for  food  stuffs  from  the  farmers  in  outlying 
districts. 

Revolution,  according  to  Mr.  Woslosky,  could  only  be 
starved  out.  He  had  no  anxiety  as  to  troops  which  would  be 
sent  against  them,  because  he  had  a  cynical  belief  that  a  man's 
country  was  less  to  him  than  various  other  things,  including 
his  stomach.  He  believed  that  all  armies  were  riddled  with 
sedition  and  fundamentally  opposed  to  law. 

Copies  of  other  important  matters,  too,  were  missing.  Lists 
of  officials  for  the  revolutionary  city  government  and  of  depu 
ties  to  take  the  places  of  the  disbanded  police,  plans  for  man 
ning,  by  the  radicals,  the  city  light,  water  and  power  plants ;  a 
schedule  of  public  eating  houses  to  take  the  place  of  the  res 
taurants. 

Woslosky  began  to  find  this  drug  clerk  with  the  ridiculous 
given  name  getting  on  his  nerves.  He  considered  him  a  dan 
gerous  enemy  to  progress,  that  particular  form  of  progress 
which  Mr.  Woslosky  advocated,  and  he  suspected  him  of  a 
lack  of  ethics  regarding  trunks  in  storage.  Mr.  Woslosky  had 
the  old-world  idea  that  the  best  government  was  a  despotism 
tempered  by  assassination.  He  thought  considerably  about 
Willy  Cameron. 

But  the  plan  concerning  the  farm  house  was,  in  the  end,  de 
vised  by  Louis  Akers.  Woslosky  was  skeptical.  It  was  true 
that  Cameron  might  stick  his  head  into  the  lion's  jaws,  but 
precautions  had  been  known  to  be  taken  at  such  times  to  pre 
vent  their  closing.  However,  the  Pole  was  desperate. 

He  took  six  picked  men  with  him  that  afternoon  to  the  farm, 
and  made  a  strategic  survey  of  the  situation.  The  house  was 
closed  and  locked,  but  he  was  not  concerned  with  the  house. 
Cusick  had  told  Denslow  the  meetings  were  held  late  at  night 
in  the  barn,  and  to  the  barn  Woslosky  repaired,  sawed-off  shot 
gun  under  his  coat  and  cigarette  in  mouth,  and  inspected  it 
with  his  evil  smile.  Two  men,  young  and  reckless,  might 


332 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

easily  plan  to  conceal  themselves  under  the  hay  in  the  loft, 
and 

Woslosky  put  down  his  gun  and  went  down  into  the  cow 
barn  below,  whistling  softly  to  himself.  He  began  to  enjoy 
the  prospect.  He  gathered  some  eggs  from  the  feed  boxes, 
carrying  them  in  his  hat,  and  breaking  the  lock  of  the  kitchen 
door  he  and  his  outfit  looted  the  closet  there  and  had  an  early 
supper,  being  careful  to  extinguish  the  fire  afterwards. 

Not  until  dusk  was  falling  did  he  post  his  men,  three  out 
side  among  the  outbuildings,  one  as  a  sentry  near  the  woods, 
and  two  in  the  barn  itself.  He  himself  took  up  his  station  in 
side  the  barn  door,  sitting  on  the  floor  with  his  gun  across  his 
knees.  Looking  out  from  there,  he  saw  the  sharp  flash  of  a 
hastily  extinguished  match,  and  snarled  with  anger.  He  had 
forbidden  smoking. 

"I've  got  to  go  out,"  he  said  cautiously.  "Don't  you  fools 
shoot  me  when  I  come  back." 

He  slipped  out  into  what  was  by  that  time  complete  black 
ness. 

Some  five  minutes  later  he  came  back,  still  noiselessly,  and 
treading  like  a  cat.  He  could  only  locate  the  barn  door  by 
feeling  for  it,  and  above  the  light  scraping  of  his  fingers  he 
could  hear,  inside,  cautious  footsteps  over  the  board  floor. 
He  scowled  again.  Damn  this  country  quiet,  anyhow !  But  he 
had  found  the  doorway,  and  was  feeling  his  way  through  when 
he  found  himself  caught  and  violently  thrown.  The  fall  and 
the  surprise  stunned  him.  He  lay  still  for  an  infuriated  help 
less  second,  with  a  knee  on  his  chest  and  both  arms  tightly  held, 
to  hear  one  of  his  own  men  above  him  saying: 

"Got  him,  all  right.  Woslosky,  you've  got  the  rope,  haven't 
you?" 

"You  fool !"  snarled  Woslosky  from  the  floor,  "let  me  up. 
You've  half  killed  me.  Didn't  I  tell  you  I  was  going  out?" 

He  scrambled  to  his  feet,  and  to  an  astounded  silence. 

"But  you  came  in  a  couple  of  minutes  ago.  Somebody 
came  in.  You  heard  him,  Cusick,  didn't  you  ?" 

Woslosky  whirled  and  closed  and  fastened  the  barn  doors, 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 333 

and  almost  with  the  same  movement  drew  a  searchlight  and 
flashed  it  over  the  place.  It  was  apparently  empty. 

The  Pole  burst  into  blasphemous  anger,  punctuated  with 
sharp  questions.  Both  men  had  heard  the  cautious  entrance 
they  had  taken  for  his  own,  both  men  had  remained  silent  and 
unsuspicious,  and  both  were  positive  whoever  had  come  in 
had  not  gone  out  again. 

He  stationed  one  man  at  the  door,  and  commenced  a  merci 
less  search.  The  summer's  hay  rilled  one  end,  but  it  was 
closely  packed  below  and  offered  no  refuge.  Armed  with  the 
shotgun,  and  with  the  flash  in  his  pocket,  Woslosky  climbed 
the  ladder  to  the  loft,  going  softly.  He  listened  at  the  top, 
and  then  searched  it  with  the  light,  holding  it  far  to  the  left 
for  a  possible  bullet.  The  loft  was  empty.  He  climbed  into 
it  and  walked  over  it,  gun  in  one  hand  and  flash  in  the  other, 
searching  for  some  buried  figure.  But  there  was  nothing. 
The  loft  was  fragrant  with  the  newly  dried  hay,  sweet  and 
empty.  Woslosky  descended  the  ladder  again,  the  flash  ex 
tinguished,  and  stood  again  on  the  barn  floor,  considering. 
Cusick  was  a  man  without  imagination,  and  he  had  sworn 
that  some  one  had  come  in.  Then 

Suddenly  there  was  a  whirr  of  wings  outside  and  above, 
excited  flutterings  first,  and  then  a  general  flight  of  the  pigeons 
who  roosted  on  the  roof.  Woslosky  listened  and  slowly  smiled. 

"We've  got  him,  boys,"  he  said,  without  excitement.  "Out 
side,  and  call  the  others.  He's  on  the  roof." 

Cusick  whistled  shrilly,  and  as  the  Pole  ran  out  he  met  the 
others  coming  pell-mell  toward  him.  He  flung  a  guard  of  all 
five  of  them  around  the  barn,  and  himself  walked  off  a  hun 
dred  feet  or  so  and  gazed  upward.  The  very  outline  of  the 
ridge  pole  was  indistinguishable,  and  he  swore  softly.  In  the 
hope  of  drawing  an  answering  flash  he  fired,  but  without  result. 
The  explosion  echoed  and  reechoed,  died  away. 

He  called  to  Cusick,  and  had  him  try  the  same  experiment, 
following  the  line  of  the  gutter  as  nearly  as  possible  in  the 
darkness,  on  that  side,  and  emptying  his  revolver.  Still  si 
lence. 


334 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

Woslosky  began  to  doubt.  The  pigeons  might  have  seen  his 
flashlight,  might  have  heard  his  own  stealthy  movements.  He 
was  intensely  irritated.  The  shooting,  if  the  alarm  had  been 
false,  had  ruined  everything.  He  saw,  as  in  a  vision,  Doyle's 
sneering  face  when  he  told  him.  Beside  him  Cusick  was  re 
loading  his  revolver  in  the  darkness. 

Then,  out  of  the  night,  came  a  call  from  the  direction  of 
the  woods,  and  unintelligible  at  that  distance. 

"What's  that?"  Cusick  said  hoarsely. 

Woslosky  made  no  reply.  He  was  listening.  Some  one 
was  approaching,  now  running,  now  stopping  as  though  con 
fused.  Woslosky  held  his  gun  ready,  and  waited.  Then,  from 
a  distance,  he  heard  his  name  called. 

He  stepped  inside  the  door  of  the  barn  and  showed  the 
light  for  a  moment.  Soon  after  the  sentry  floundered  in, 
breathless  and  excited. 

"I  got  one  of  them,"  he  gasped.  "Hit  him  with  my  gun. 
He's  lying  back  by  the  stone  fence." 

"Did  you  call  out,  or  did  he  ?" 

"He  did.  That's  how  I  knew  it  wasn't  one  of  our  fellows. 
He  called  Cameron,  so  he's  the  other  one." 

Woslosky  drew  a  deep  breath.  Then  it  was  Cameron  en 
the  roof.  It  was  Cameron  they  wanted. 

"He'll  sleep  for  an  hour  or  two,  if  he  ever  wakes  up," 
Pink's  assailant  boasted.  But  Woslosky  was  taking  no 
chances  that  night.  He  sent  two  men  after  Pink,  and  began 
to  pace  the  floor  thoughtfully.  If  he  could  have  waited  for 
daylight  it  would  have  been  simple  enough,  but  he  did  not 
know  how  much  time  he  had.  He  did  not  underestimate 
young  Cameron's  intelligence,  and  it  had  occurred  to  him  that 
that  young  Scot  might  cannily  have  provided  against  his  fail 
ure  to  return.  Then,  too,  the  state  constabulary  had  an  un 
comfortable  habit  of  riding  lonely  back  roads  at  night,  and 
shots  could  be  heard  a  long  distance  off. 

He  had  never  surveyed  the  barn  roof  closely,  but  he  knew 
that  it  was  steeply  pitched.  Cameron,  then,  was  probably 
braced  somewhere  in  the  gutter.  The  departure  of  the  two 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 335 

men  had  left  him  short-handed,  and  he  waited  impatiently 
for  their  return.  With  a  ladder,  provided  it  could  be  quietly 
placed,  a  man  could  shoot  from  a  corner  along  two  sides  of 
the  roof.  With  two  ladders,  at  diagonal  corners,  they  could 
get  him.  But  a  careful  search  discovered  no  ladders  on  the 
place. 

He  went  out,  and  standing  close  against  the  wall  for  pro 
tection,  called  up. 

"We  know  you're  there,  Cameron,"  he  said.  "If  you  come 
down  we  won't  hurt  you.  If  you  don't,  we'll  get  you,  and  you 
know  it." 

But  he  received  no  reply. 

Soon  after  that  the  two  men  carried  in  Pink  Denslow,  and 
laid  him  on  the  floor  of  the  barn.  Then  Woslosky  tried  again, 
more  reckless  this  time  with  anger.  He  stood  out  somewhat 
from  the  wall  and  called : 

"One  more  chance,  Cameron,  or  we'll  put  a  bullet  through 
your  friend  here.  Come  down,  or  we'll " 

Something  struck  him  heavily  and  he  fell,  with  a  bullet  in 
the  shoulder.  He  struggled  to  his  feet  and  gained  the  shelter 
of  the  wall,  his  face  twisted  with  pain. 

"All  right,"  he  said,  "if  that's  the  way  you  feel  about  it !" 

He  regained  the  barn  and  had  his  arm  supported  in  an  ex 
temporized  sling.  Then  he  ordered  Pink  to  be  tied,  and 
fighting  down  his  pain  considered  the  situation.  Cameron 
was  on  the  roof,  and  armed.  Even  if  he  had  no  extra  shells 
he  still  had  five  shots  in  reserve,  and  he  would  not  waste  any 
of  them.  Whoever  tried  to  scale  the  walls  would  be  done  in 
at  once ;  whoever  attempted  to  follow  him  to  the  roof  by  way 
of  the  loft  would  be  shot  instantly.  And  his  own  condition 
demanded  haste;  the  bullet,  striking  from  above,  had  broken 
his  arm.  Every  movement  was  torture. 

He  thought  of  setting  fire  to  the  barn.  Then  Cameron 
would  have  the  choice  of  tv/o  things,  to  surrender  or  to  be 
killed.  He  might  get  some  of  them  first,  however.  Weil, 
that  was  a  part  of  the  game. 


336 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

He  delivered  a  final  ultimatum  from  the  shelter  of  the 
doorway. 

"I've  just  thought  of  something,  Cameron,"  he  called. 
"We're  going  to  fire  the  barn.  Your  young  friend  is  here, 
tied,  and  we'll  leave  him  here.  Do  you  get  that?  Either 
throw  down  that  gun  of  yours,  and  come  down,  or  I'm  in 
clined  to  think  you'll  be  up  against  it.  I'll  give  you  a  minute 
or  so  to  think  it  over." 

At  half-past  eleven  o'clock  that  night  the  first  of  four  auto 
mobiles  drove  into  Friendship.  It  was  driven  by  a  hatless 
young  man  in  a  raincoat  over  a  suit  of  silk  pajamas,  and  it 
contained  four  County  detectives  and  the  city  Chief  of  Police. 
Behind  it,  but  well  outdistanced,  came  the  other  cars,  some  of 
them  driven  by  leading  citizens  in  a  state  of  considerable  des 
habille. 

At  a  cross  street  in  Friendship  the  lead  car  drew  up,  and 
flashlights  were  turned  on  a  road  map  in  the  rear  of  the  car. 
There  was  some  argument  over  the  proper  road,  and  a  mem 
ber  of  the  state  constabulary,  riding  up  to  investigate,  showed 
a  strong  inclination  to  place  them  under  arrest. 

It  took  a  moment  to  put  him  right. 

"Wish  I  could  go  along,"  he  said,  wistfully.  "The  glace  you 
want  is  back  there.  I  can't  leave  the  town,  but  I'll  steer  you 
out.  You'll  probably  run  into  some  of  our  fellows  back  there." 

He  rode  on  ahead,  his  big  black  horse  restive  in  the  light 
from  the  lamps  behind  him.  At  the  end  of  a  lane  he  stopped. 

"Straight  ahead  up  there,"  he  said.    "You'll  find " 

He  broke  off  and  stared  ahead  to  where  a  dull  red  glare, 
reflected  on  the  low  hanging  clouds,  had  appeared  over  the 
crest  of  the  hill. 

"Something  doing  up  there,"  he  called  suddenly.  "Let's 
go." 

He  jerked  his  revolver  free,  dug  his  heels  into  the  flanks 
of  his  horse,  and  was  off  on  a  dead  run.  Half  way  up  the 
hill  the  car  passed  him,  the  black  going  hard,  and  its  rider's 
face,  under  the  rim  of  his  uniform  hat,  a  stern  profile.  His 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 337 

reins  lay  loose  on  the  animal's  neck,  and  he  was  examining 
his  gun. 

The  road  mounted  to  a  summit,  and  dipped  again.  They 
were  in  a  long  valley,  and  the  burning  barn  was  clearly  out 
lined  at  the  far  end  of  it.  One  side  was  already  flaming,  and 
tongues  of  fire  leaped  out  through  the  roof.  The  men  in  the 
car  were  standing  now,  doors  open,  ready  to  leap,  while  the 
car  lurched  and  swayed  over  the  uneven  road.  Behind  them 
they  heard  the  clatter  of  the  oncoming  horse. 

As  they  drew  nearer  they  could  see  three  watching  figures 
against  the  burning  building,  and  as  they  turned  into  the  lane 
which  led  to  the  barnyard  a  shot  rang  out  and  one  of  the 
figures  dropped  and  lay  still.  There  was  a  cry  of  warning 
from  somewhere,  and  before  the  detectives  could  leap  from 
the  car,  the  group  had  scattered,  running  wildly.  The  state 
policeman  threw  his  horse  back  on  its  hunches,  and  fired 
without  apparently  taking  aim  at  one  of  the  running  shadows. 
The  man  threw  up  his  arms  and  fell.  The  state  policeman 
galloped  toward  him,  dismounted  and  bent  over  him. 

Firing  as  they  ran,  detectives  leaped  out  of  the  car  and 
gave  chase,  and  so  it  was  that  the  young  gentleman  in  bed 
room  slippers  and  pajamas,  standing  in  his  car  and  shielding 
his  eyes  against  the  glare,  saw  a  curious  thing. 

First  of  all,  the  roof  blazed  up  brightly,  and  he  perceived 
a  human  figure,  hanging  by  its  hands  from  the  eaves  and 
preparing  to  drop.  The  young  gentleman  in  pajamas  was 
feeling  rather  out  of  things  by  that  time,  so  he  made  a  hasty 
exit  from  his  car  toward  the  barn,  losing  a  slipper  as  he  did 
so,  and  yelling  in  a  slightly  hysterical  manner.  It  thus  hap 
pened  that  he  and  the  dropping  figure  reached  the  same  spot 
at  almost  the  same  moment,  one  result  of  which  was  that  the 
young  gentleman  in  pajamas  found  himself  struck  a  violent 
blow  with  a  doubled-up  fist,  and  at  the  same  moment  his  bare 
right  foot  was  tramped  on  with  extreme  thoroughness. 

The  young  gentleman  in  pajamas  reeled  back  dizzily  and 
gave  tongue,  while  standing  on  one  foot.  The  person  he  ad 
dressed  was  the  state  constable,  and  his  instructions  were  to 


338 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

get  the  fugitive  and  kill  him.  But  the  fugitive  here  did  a  very 
strange  thing.  Through  the  handkerchief  which  it  was  now 
seen  he  wore  tied  over  his  mouth,  he  told  the  running  police 
man  to  go  to  perdition,  and  then  with  seeming  suicidal  intent 
rushed  into  the  burning  barn.  From  it  he  emerged  a  moment 
later,  dragging  a  figure  bound  hand  and  foot,  blackened  with 
smoke,  and  with  its  clothing  smoldering  in  a  dozen  places ; 
a  figure  which  alternately  coughed  and  swore  in  a  strangled 
whisper,  but  which  found  breath  for  a  loud  whoop  almost 
immediately  after,  on  its  being  immersed,  as  it  promptly  was, 
in  a  nearby  horse-trough. 

Very  soon  after  that  the  other  cars  arrived.  They  drew 
up  and  men  emerged  from  them,  variously  clothed  and  even 
more  variously  armed,  but  all  they  saw  was  the  ruined  embers 
of  the  barn,  and  in  the  glow  five  figures.  Of  the  five  one  lay, 
face  up  to  the  sky,  as  though  the  prostrate  body  followed 
with  its  eyes  the  unkillable  traitor  soul  of  one  Cusick,  lately 
storekeeper  at  Friendship.  Woslosky,  wounded  for  the 
second  time,  lay  on  an  automobile  rug  on  the  ground,  con 
scious  but  sullenly  silent.  On  the  driving  seat  of  an  automo 
bile  sat  a  young  gentleman  with  an  overcoat  over  a  pair  of 
silk  pajamas,  carefully  inspecting  the  toes  of  his  right  foot 
by  the  light  of  a  match,  while  another  young  gentleman  with 
a  white  handkerchief  around  his  head  was  sitting  on  the 
running  board  of  the  same  car,  dripping  water  and  rather 
dazedly  staring  at  the  ruins. 

And  beside  him  stood  a  gaunt  figure,  blackened  of  face, 
minus  eyebrows  and  charred  of  hair,  and  considerably  torn  as 
to  clothing.  A  figure  which  seemed  disinclined  to  talk,  and 
which  gave  its  explanations  in  short,  staccato  sentences. 
Having  done  which,  it  relapsed  into  uncompromising  silence 
again. 

Some  time  later  the  detectives  returned.     They  had  made 
no  further  captures,  for  the  refugees  had  known  the  country, 
and  once  outside  the  light  from  the  burning  barn  search  was 
useless.    The  Chief  of  Police  approached  Willy  Cameron  am 
stood  before  him,  eyeing  him  severely. 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 339 

"The  next  time  you  try  to  raid  an  anarchist  meeting,  Cam 
eron,"  he  said,  "you'd  better  honor  me  with  your  confidence. 
You've  probably  learned  a  lesson  from  all  this." 

Willy  Cameron  glanced  at  him,  and  for  the  first  time  that 
night,  smiled. 

"I  have,"  he  said ;  "I'll  never  trust  a  pigeon  again." 

The  Chief  thought  him  slightly  unhinged  by  the  night's  ex 
perience. 


CHAPTER  XL 

EDITH  BOYD'S  child  was  prematurely  born  at  the  Memo 
rial  Hospital  early  the  next  morning.     It  lived  only  a 
few  moments,  but  Edith's  mother  never  knew  either  of  its 
birth  or  of  its  death. 

When  Willy  Cameron  reached  the  house  at  two  o'clock 
that  night  he  found  Dan  in  the  lower  hall,  a  new  Dan,  grave 
and  composed  but  very  pale. 

"Mother's  gone,  Willy,"  he  said  quietly.  "I  don't  think 
she  knew  anything  about  it.  Ellen  heard  her  breathing  hard 
and  went  in,  but  she  wasn't  conscious."  He  sat  down  on  the 
horse-hair  covered  chair  by  the  stand.  "I  don't  know  anything 
about  these  things,"  he  observed,  still  with  that  strange  new 
composure.  "What  do  you  do  now  ?" 

''Don't  worry  about  that,  Dan,  just  now.  There's  nothing 
to  do  until  morning." 

He  looked  about  him.     The  presence  of  death  gave  a  new 
dignity  to  the  little  house.     Through  the  open  door  he  could 
see  in  the  parlor  Mrs.  Boyd's  rocking  chair,  in  which  she  had    \ 
traveled  so  many  conversational  miles.     Even  the  chair  had    = 
gained  dignity;  that  which  it  had  once  enthroned  had  now   j 
penetrated  the  ultimate  mystery. 

He  was  shaken  and  very  weary.  His  mind  worked  slowly  j 
and  torpidly,  so  that  even  grief  came  with  an  effort.  He  was  | 
grieved;  he  knew  that.  Some  one  who  had  loved  him  and  .j 
depended  on  him  was  gone ;  some  one  who  loved  life  had  lost  j 
it.  He  ran  his  hand  over  his  singed  hair. 

"Where  is  Edith?" 

Dan's  voice  hardened. 

"She's  out  somewhere.     It's  like  her,  isn't  it?" 

Willy  Cameron  roused  himself. 

"Out?"   he   said   incredulously.     "Don't   you  know   where  } 
~  :„  •>» 


she  is?" 

340 


li 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 34T 

"No.    And  I  don't  care." 

Willy  Cameron  was  fully  alert  now,  and  staring  down  at 
Dan. 

"I'll  tell  you  something,  Dan.  She  probably  saved  my  life 
to-night.  I'll  tell  you  how  later.  And  if  she  is  still  out  there 
is  something  wrong." 

"She  used  to  stay  out  to  all  hours.  She  hasn't  done  it 
lately,  but  I  thought " 

Dan  got  up  and  reached  for  his  hat. 

"Where'll  I  start  to  look  for  her?" 

But  Willy  Cameron  had  no  suggestion  to  make.  He  was 
trying  to  think  straight,  but  it  was  not  easy.  He  knew  that 
for  some  reason  Edith  had  not  waited  until  midnight  to  open 
the  envelope.  She  had  telephoned  her  message  clearly,  he  had 
learned,  but  with  great  excitement,  saying  that  there  was  a 
plot  against  his  life,  and  giving  the  farmhouse  and  the  mes 
sage  he  had  left  in  full ;  and  she  had  not  rung  off  until  she 
knew  that  a  posse  would  start  at  once.  And  that  had  been 
before  eleven  o'clock. 

Three  hours.  He  looked  at  his  watch.  Either  she  had 
been  hurt  or  was  a  prisoner,  or — he  came  close  to  the  truth 
then.  He  glanced  at  Dan,  standing  hat  in  hand. 

"We'll  try  the  hospitals  first,  Dan,"  he  said.  "And  the 
best  way  to  do  that  is  by  telephone.  I  don't  like  Ellen  being 
left  alone  here,  so  you'd  better  let  me  do  that." 

Dan  acquiesced  unwillingly.  He  resumed  his  seat  in  the 
hall,  and  Willy  Cameron  went  upstairs.  Ellen  was  moving 
softly  about,  setting  in  order  the  little  upper  room.  The  win 
dows  were  opened,  and  through  them  came  the  soft  night 
wind,  giving  a  semblance  of  life  and  movement  under  it  to 
the  sheet  that  covered  the  quiet  figure  on  the  bed. 

Willy  Cameron  stood  by  it  and  looked  down,  with  a  great 
wave  of  thankfulness  in  his  heart.  She  had  been  saved  much, 
and  if  from  some  new  angle  she  was  seeing  them  now  it 
would  be  with  the  vision  of  eternity,  and  its  understanding. 
She  would  see  how  sometimes  the  soul  must  lose  here  to 
gain  beyond.  She  would  see  the  world  filled  with  its  Ediths, 


342 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

and  she  would  know  that  they  too  were  a  part  of  the  great 
plan,  and  that  the  breaking  of  the  body  sometimes  freed  the 
soul. 

He  was  shy  of  the  forms  of  religion,  but  he  voiced  a  small 
inarticulate  prayer,  standing  beside  the  bed  while  Ellen 
straightened  the  few  toilet  articles  on  the  dresser,  that  she 
might  have  rest,  and  then  a  long  and  placid  happiness.  And 
love,  he  added.  There  would  be  no  Heaven  without  love. 

Ellen  was  looking  at  him  in  the  mirror. 

"Your  hair  looks  queer,  Willy,"  she  said.  "And  I  declare 
your  clothes  are  a  sight."  She  turned,  sternly.  "Where  have 
you  been?" 

"It's  a  long  story,  Ellen.  Don't  bother  about  it  now.  I'm 
worried  about  Edith." 

Ellen's  lips  closed  in  a  grim  line. 

"The  less  said  about  her  the  better.  She  came  back  in  a 
terrible  state  about  something  or  other,  ran  in  and  up  to  your 
room,  and  out  again.  I  tried  to  tell  her  her  mother  wasn't 
so  well,  but  she  looked  as  if  she  didn't  hear  me." 

It  was  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  when  Willy  Cameron 
located  Edith.  He  had  gone  to  the  pharmacy  and  let  himself 
in,  intending  to  telephone,  but  the  card  on  the  door,  edged 
with  black,  gave  him  a  curious  sense  of  being  surrounded  that 
night  by  death,  and  he  stood  for  a  moment,  unwilling  to  begin 
for  fear  of  some  further  tragedy.  In  that  moment,  what  with 
reaction  from  excitement  and  weariness,  he  had  a  feeling  of 
futility,  of  struggling  to  no  end.  One  fought  on,  and  in  the 
last  analysis  it  was  useless. 

"So  soon  passeth  it  away,  and  we  are  gone." 

He  saw  Mr.  Davis,  sitting  alone  in  his  house;  he  saw  Ellen 
moving  about  that  quiet  upper  room ;  he  saw  Cusick  lying  on 
the  ground  beside  the  smoldering  heap  that  had  been  the 
barn,  and  staring  up  with  eyes  that  saw  only  the  vast  infinity 
that  was  the  sky.  All  the  struggling  and  the  fighting,  and  it 
came  to  that. 

He  picked  up  the  telephone  book  at  last,  and  finding  the 
hospital  list  in  the  directory  began  his  monotonous  calling  of 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 343 

numbers,  and  still  the  revolt  was  in  his  mind.  Even  life  lay 
through  the  gates  of  death;  daily  and  hourly  women  every 
where  laid  down  their  lives  that  some  new  soul  be  born.  But 
the  revulsion  came  with  that,  a  return  to  something  nearer 
the  normal.  Daily  and  hourly  women  lived,  having  brought 
to  pass  the  miracle  of  life. 

At  half-past  four  he  located  Edith  at  the  Memorial,  and 
learned  that  her  child  had  been  born  dead,  but  that  she  was 
doing  well.  He  was  suddenly  exhausted;  he  sat  down  on  a 
stool  before  the  counter,  and  with  his  arms  across  it  and  his 
head  on  them,  fell  almost  instantly  asleep.  When  he  waked 
it  was  almost  seven  and  the  intermittent  sounds  of  early  morn 
ing  came  through  the  closed  doors,  as  though  the  city  stirred 
but  had  not  wakened. 

He  went  to  the  door  and  opened  it,  looking  out.  He  had 
been  wrong  before.  Death  was  a  beginning  and  not  an  end;  it 
was  the  morning  of  the  spirit.  Tired  bodies  lay  down  to  sleep 
and  their  souls  wakened  to  the  morning,  rested ;  the  first  fruits 
of  them  that  slept. 

From  the  chimneys  of  the  houses  nearby  small  spirals  of 
smoke  began  to  ascend,  definite  promise  of  food  and  morning 
cheer  behind  the  closed  doors,  where  the  milk  bottles  stood 
like  small  white  sentinels  and  the  morning  paper  was  bent 
over  the  knob.  Morning  in  the  city,  with  children  searching 
for  lost  stockings  and  buttoning  little  battered  shoes;  with 
women  hurrying  about,  from  stove  to  closet,  from  table  to 
stove ;  with  all  burdens  a  little  lighter  and  all  thoughts  a  little 
kinder.  Morning. 


CHAPTER  XLI 

IN  her  bed  in  the  maternity  ward  Edith  at  first  lay  through 
the  days,  watching  the  other  women  with  their  babies,  and 
wondering  over  the  strange  instinct  that  made  them  hover, 
like  queer  mis-shapen  ministering  angels,  over  the  tiny  quiv 
ering  bundles.  Some  of  them  were  like  herself,  or  herself 
as  she  might  have  been,  bearing  their  children  out  of  wedlock. 
Yet  they  faced  their  indefinite  futures  impassively,  content  in 
relief  from  pain,  in  the  child  in  their  arms,  in  present  peace 
and  security.  She  could  not  understand. 

She  herself  felt  no  sense  of  loss.  Having  never  held  her 
child  in  her  arms  she  did  not  feel  them  empty. 

She  had  not  been  told  of  her  mother's  death ;  men  were  not 
admitted  to  the  ward,  but  early  on  that  first  morning,  when 
she  lay  there,  hardly  conscious  but  in  an  ecstasy  of  relief  from 
pain,  Ellen  had  come.  A  tired  Ellen  with  circles  around  her 
eyes,  and  a  bag  of  oranges  in  her  arms. 

"How  do  you  feel?"  she  had  asked,  sitting  down  self-con 
sciously  beside  the  bed.  The  ward  had  its  eyes  on  her. 

"I'm  weak,  but  I'm  all  right.    Last  night  was  awful,  Ellen." 

She  had  roused  herself  with  an  effort.  Ellen  reminded  her 
of  something,  something  that  had  to  do  with  Willy  Cameron. 
Then  she  remembered,  and  tried  to  raise  herself  in  the  bed. 

"Willy!"  she  gasped.  "Did  he  come  home?  Is  he  all 
right?" 

"He's  all  right.  It  was  him  that  found  you  were  here.  You 
lie  back  now;  the  nurse  is  looking." 

Edith  lay  down  and  closed  her  eyes,  and  the  ecstasy  of 
relief  and  peace  gave  to  her  pale  face  an  almost  spiritual  look. 
Ellen  saw  it,  and  patted  her  arm  with  a  roughened  hand. 

"You  poor  thing!"  she  said.  "I've  been  as  mean  to  you  as 
I  knew  how  to  be.  I'm  going  to  be  different,  Edith.  I'm  just 
a  cross  old  maid,  and  I  guess  I  didn't  understand." 

344 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 345 

"You've  been  all  right,"  Edith  said. 

Ellen  kissed  her  when  she  went  away. 

So  for  three  days  Edith  lay  and  rested.  She  felt  that  God 
had  been  very  good  to  her,  and  she  began  to  think  of  God  as 
having  given  her  another  chance.  This  time  He  had  let  her 
off,  but  He  had  given  her  a  warning.  He  had  said,  in  effect, 
that  if  she  lived  straight  and  thought  straight  from  now  on 
He  would  forget  this  thing  she  had  done.  But  if  she  did 
not 

Then  what  about  Willy  Cameron?  Did  He  mean  her  to 
hold  him  to  that  now?  Willy  did  not  love  her.  Perhaps  he 
would  grow  to  love  her,  but  she  was  seeing  things  more  clearly 
than  she  had  before,  and  one  of  the  things  she  saw  was  that 
Willy  Cameron  was  a  one-woman  man,  and  that  she  was  not 
the  woman. 

"But  I  love  him  so,"  she  would  cry  to  herself. 

The  ward  moved  in  its  orderly  routine  around  her.  The 
babies  were  carried  out,  bathed  and  brought  back,  their  muz 
zling  mouths  open  for  the  waiting  mother-breast.  The  nurses 
moved  about,  efficient,  kindly,  whimsically  maternal.  Women 
went  out  when  their  hour  came,  swollen  of  feature  and  figure, 
and  were  wheeled  back  later  on,  etherealized,  purified  as  by 
fire,  and  later  on  were  given  their  babies.  Their  faces  were 
queer  then,  frightened  and  proud  at  first,  and  later  watchful 
and  tenderly  brooding. 

For  three  days  Edith's  struggle  went  on.  She  had  her 
strong  hours  and  her  weak  ones.  There  were  moments  when, 
exhausted  and  yet  exalted,  she  determined  to  give  him  up  al 
together,  to  live  the  fiction  of  the  marriage  until  her  mother's 
death,  and  then  to  give  up  the  house  and  never  see  him  again. 
If  she  gave  him  up  she  must  never  see  him  again.  At  those 
times  she  prayed  not  to  love  him  any  longer,  and  sometimes, 
for  a  little  while  after  that,  she  would  have  peace.  It  was 
almost  as  though  she  did  not  love  him. 

But  there  were  the  other  times,  when  she  lay  there  and 
pictured  them  married,  and  dreamed  a  dream  of  bringing  him 
to  her  feet.  He  had  offered  a  marriage  that  was  not  a  mar- 


346 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

riage,  but  he  was  a  man,  and  human.  He  did  not  want  her 
now,  but  in  the  end  he  would  want  her ;  young  as  she  was  she 
knew  already  the  strength  of  a  woman's  physical  hold  on  a 
man. 

Late  on  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day  Ellen  came  again,  a 
swollen-eyed  Ellen,  dressed  in  black  with  black  cotton  gloves, 
and  a  black  veil  around  her  hat.  Ellen  wore  her  mourning 
with  the  dogged  sense  of  duty  of  her  class,  and  would  as  soon 
have  gone  to  the  burying  ground  in  her  kitchen  apron  as  with 
out  black.  She  stood  in  the  doorway  of  the  ward,  hesitat 
ing,  and  Edith  saw  her  and  knew. 

Her  first  thought  was  not  of  her  mother  at  all.  She  saw 
only  that  the  God  who  had  saved  her  had  made  her  decision 
for  her,  and  that  now  she  would  never  marry  Willy  Cameron. 
All  this  time  He  had  let  her  dream  and  struggle.  She  felt 
very  bitter. 

Ellen  came  and  sat  down  beside  her. 

"She's  gone,  Edith,"  she  said ;  "we  didn't  tell  you  before,  but 
you  have  to  know  sometime.  We  buried  her  this  afternoon." 

Suddenly  Edith  forgot  Willy  Cameron,  and  God,  and  Dan, 
and  the  years  ahead.  She  was  a  little  girl  again,  and  her 
mother  was  saying: 

"Brush  your  teeth  and  say  your  prayers,  Edie.  And  to 
morrow's  Saturday.  So  you  don't  need  to  get  up  until  you're 
good  and  ready." 

She  lay  there.  She  saw  her  mother  growing  older  and 
more  frail,  the  house  more  untidy,  and  her  mother's  bright 
spirit  fading  to  the  drab  of  her  surroundings.  She  saw  her 
self,  slipping1  in  late  at  night,  listening  always  for  that  uneasy, 
querulous  voice.  And  then  she  saw  those  recent  months,  when 
her  mother  had  bloomed  with  happiness;  she  saw  her  strug 
gling  with  her  beloved  desserts,  cheerfully  unconscious  of  any 
failure  in  them;  she  saw  her,  living  like  a  lady,  as  she  had 
said,  with  every  anxiety  kept  from  her.  There  had  been 
times  when  her  thin  face  had  been  almost  illuminated  with 
her  new  content  and  satisfaction. 

Suddenly  grief  and  remorse  overwhelmed  her. 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN  347 

"Mother !"  she  said,  huskily.  And  lay  there,  crying  quietly, 
with  Ellen  holding  her  hand.  All  that  was  hard  and  rebellious 
in  Edith  Boyd  was  swept  away  in  that  rush  of  grief,  and  in 
its  place  there  came  a  new  courage  and  resolution.  She  would 
meet  the  future  alone,  meet  it  and  overcome  it.  But  not 
alone,  either ;  there  was  always- — — 

It  was  a  Sunday  afternoon,  and  the  nurse  had  picked  up  the 
worn  ward  Bible  and  was  reading  from  it,  aloud.  In  their 
rocking  chairs  in  a  semi-circle  around  her  were  the  women, 
some  with  sleeping  babies  in  their  arms,  others  with  tense, 
expectant  faces. 

"Let  not  your  heart  be  troubled,"  read  the  nurse,  in  a  grave 
young  voice.  "Ye  believe  in  God.  Believe  also  in  Me.  In 
my  Father 's  house " 

There  was  always  God. 

Edith  Boyd  saw  her  mother  in  the  Father's  house,  potter 
ing  about  some  small  celestial  duty,  and  eagerly  seeking  and 
receiving  approval.  She  saw  her,  in  some  celestial  rocking 
chair,  her  tired  hands  folded,  slowly  rocking  and  resting.  And 
perhaps,  as  she  sat  there,  she  held  Edith's  child  on  her  knee, 
like  the  mothers  in  the  group  around  the  nurse.  Held  it  and 
understood  at  last. 


CHAPTER  XLII 

IT  was  at  this  time  that  Doyle  showed  his  hand,  with  his  cus 
tomary  fearlessness.  He  made  a  series  of  incendiary 
speeches,  the  general  theme  being  that  the  hour  was  close  at 
hand  for  putting  the  fear  of  God  into  the  exploiting  classes  for 
all  time  to  come.  His  impassioned  oratory,  corning  at  the 
psychological  moment,  when  the  long  strike  had  brought  its 
train  of  debt  and  evictions,  made  a  profound  impression.  Had 
he  asked  for  a  general  strike  vote  then,  he  would  have  se 
cured  it. 

As  it  was,  it  was  some  time  before  all  the  unions  had  voted 
for  it.  And  the  day  was  not  set.  Doyle  was  holding  off,  and 
for  a  reason.  Day  by  day  he  saw  a  growth  of  the  theory  of 
Bolshevism  among  the  so-called  intellectual  groups  of  the 
country.  Almost  every  university  had  its  radicals,  men  who 
saw  emerging  from  Russia  the  beginning  of  a  new  earth. 
Every  class  now  had  its  Bolshevists.  They  found  a  ready 
market  for  their  propaganda,  intelligent  and  insidious  as  it 
was,  among  a  certain  liberal  element  of  the  nation,  disgruntled 
with  the  autocracy  imposed  upon  them  by  the  war. 

The  reaction  from  that  autocracy  was  a  swinging  to  the 
other  extreme,  and,  as  if  to  work  into  the  hands  of  the  revolu 
tionary  party,  living  costs  remained  at  the  maximum.  The 
cry  of  the  revolutionists,  to  all  enough  and  to  none  too  much, 
found  a  response  not  only  in  the  anxious  minds  of  honest 
workmen,  but  among  an  underpaid  intelligentsia.  Neither  po 
litical  party  offered  any  relief ;  the  old  lines  no  longer  held,  and 
new  lines  of  cleavage  had  come.  Progressive  Republicans  and 
Democrats  had  united  against  reactionary  members  of  both 
parties.  There  were  no  great  leaders,  no  men  of  the  hour. 

The  old  vicious  cycle  of  empires  threatened  to  repeat  itself, 
the  old  story  of  the  many  led  by  the  few.  Always  it  had  come, 
autocracy,  the  too  great  power  of  one  man;  then  anarchy,  the 
overthrow  of  that  power  by  the  angry  mob.  Out  of  that 

348 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 349 

anarchy  the  gradual  restoration  of  order  by  the  people  them 
selves,  into  democracy.  And  then  in  time  again,  by  that  steady 
gravitation  of  the  strong  up  and  the  weak  down,  some  one 
man  who  emerged  from  the  mass  and  crowned  himself,  or  was 
crowned.  And  there  was  autocracy  again,  and  again  the 
vicious  circle. 

But  such  movements  had  always  been,  in  the  last  analysis, 
the  work  of  the  few.  It  had  always  been  the  militant  minority 
which  ruled.  Always  the  great  mass  of  the  people  had  sub 
mitted.  They  had  fought,  one  way  or  the  otker  when  the  time 
came,  but  without  any  deep  conviction  behind  them.  They 
wanted  peace,  the  right  to  labor.  They  warred,  to  find  peace. 
Small  concern  was  it,  to  the  peasant  plowing  his  field,  whether 
one  man  ruled  over  him  or  a  dozen.  He  wanted  neither  place 
nor  power. 

It  came  to  this,  then,  Willy  Cameron  argued  to  himself. 
This  new  world  conflict  was  a  struggle  between  the  contented 
and  the  discontented.  In  Europe,  discontent  might  conquer, 
but  in  America,  never.  There  were  too  many  who  owned  a 
field  or  had  the  chance  to  labor.  There  were  too  many  ways 
legitimately  to  aspire.  Those  who  wanted  something  for  noth 
ing  were  but  a  handful  to  those  who  wanted  to  give  that  they 
might  receive. 


Three  days  before  the  election,  Willy  Cameron  received  a 
note  from  Lily,  sent  by  hand. 

"Father  wants  to  see  you  to-night,"  she  wrote,  "and  mother 
suggests  that  as  you  are  busy,  you  try  to  come  to  dinner.  We 
are  dining  alone.  Do  come,  Willy.  I  think  it  is  most  im 
portant." 

He  took  the  letter  home  with  him  and  placed  it  in  a  locked 
drawer  of  his  desk,  along  with  a  hard  and  shrunken  dough 
nut,  tied  with  a  bow  of  Christmas  ribbon,  which  had  once 
helped  to  adorn  the  Christmas  tree  they  had  trimmed  together. 
There  were  other  things  in  the  drawer;  a  postcard  photo- 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 


graph,  rather  blurred,  of  Lily  in  the  doorway  of  her  little  hut, 
smiling;  and  the  cigar  box  which  had  been  her  cash  register 
at  the  camp. 

He  stood  for  some  time  looking  down  at  the  post  card; 
it  did  not  seem  possible  that  in  the  few  months  since  those 
wonderful  days,  life  could  have  been  so  cruel  to  them  both. 
Lily  married,  and  he  himself  — 

Ellen  came  up  when  he  was  tying  his  tie.  She  stood 
behind  him,  watching  him  in  the  mirror. 

"I  don't  know  what  you've  done  to  your  hair,  Willy,"  she 
said  ;  "it  certainly  looks  queer." 

"It  usually  looks  queer,  so  why  worry,  heart  of  my  heart?" 

But  he  turned  and  put  an  arm  around  her  shoulders. 

"What  would  the  world  be  without  women  like  you,  Ellen  ?" 
he  said  gravely. 

"I  haten't  done  anything  but  my  duty,"  Ellen  said,  in  her 
prim  voice.  "Listen,  Willy.  I  saw  Edith  again  to-day,  and 
she  told  me  to  do  something." 

"To  go  home  and  take  a  rest?    That's  what  you  need." 

"No.     She  wants  me  to  tear  up  that  marriage  license." 

He  said  nothing  for  a  moment.    "I'll  have  to  see  her  first." 

"She  said  it  wouldn't  be  any  good,  Willy.  She's  made  up 
her  mind."  She  watched  him  anxiously.  "You're  not  going 
to  be  foolish,  are  you?  She  says  there's  no  need  now,  and 
she's  right." 

"Somebody  will  have  to  look  after  her." 

"Dan  can  do  that.  He's  changed,  since  she  went."  Ellen 
glanced  toward  Mrs.  Boyd's  empty  room.  "You've  done 
enough,  Willy.  You've  seen  them  through,  all  of  them.  I— 
isn't  it  time  you  began  to  think  about  yourself  ?" 

He  was  putting  on  his  coat,  and  she  picked  a  bit  of  thread 
from  it,  with  nervous  fingers. 

"Where  are  you  going  to-night,  Willy?" 

"To  the  Cardews.     Mr.  Cardew  has  sent  for  me." 

She  looked  up  at  him. 

"Willy,  I  want  to  tell  you  something.    The  Cardews  won't 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 


let  that  marriage  stand,  and  you  know  it.  I  think  she  e  as 
for  you.  Don't  look  at  me  like  that.  I  do." 

"That's  because  you  are  fond  of  me,"  he  said,  smiling  CK  ,  . 
at  her.  "I'm  not  the  sort  of  man  girls  care  about,  Ellen. 
Let's  face  that.  The  General  Manager  said  when  he  planned 
me,  'Here's  going  to  be  a  fellow  who  is  to  have  everything  in 
the  world,  health,  intelligence,  wit  and  the  beauty  of  an 
Adonis,  but  he  has  to  lack  something,  so  we'll  make  it  that'." 

But  Ellen,  glancing  up  swiftly,  saw  that  although  his  tone 
was  light,  there  was  pain  in  his  eyes. 

He  reflected  on  Edith's  decision  as  he  walked  through  the 
park  toward  the  Cardew  house.  It  had  not  surprised  him, 
and  yet  he  knew  it  had  cost  her  an  effort.  How  great  an 
effort,  man-like,  he  would  never  understand,  but  something 
of  what  she  had  gone  through  he  realized.  He  wondered 
vaguely  whether,  had  there  never  been  a  Lily  Cardew  in  his 
life,  he  could  ever  have  cared  for  Edith.  Perhaps.  Not 
the  Edith  of  the  early  days,  that  was  certain.  But  this  new 
Edith,  with  her  gentleness  and  meekness,  her  clear,  suffering 
eyes,  her  strange  new  humility. 

She  had  sent  him  a  message  of  warning  about  Akers,  and 
from  it  he  had  reconstructed  much  of  the  events  of  the  night 
she  had  taken  sick. 

"Tell  him  to  watch  Louis  Akers,"  she  had  said.  "I  don't 
know  how  near  Willy  was  to  trouble  the  other  night,  Ellen, 
but  they're  going  to  tiy  to  get  him." 

Ellen  had  repeated  the  message,  watching  him  narrowly, 
but  he  had  only  laughed. 

"Who  are  they?'  she  had  persisted. 

"I'll  tell  you  all  about  it  some  day,"  he  had  said. 

But  he  had  told  Dan  the  whole  story,  and,  although  he  did 
not  know  it,  Dan  had  from  that  time  on  been  his  self-consti 
tuted  bodyguard.  During  his  campaign  speeches  Dan  was 
always  near,  his  right  hand  on  a  revolver  in  his  coat  pocket, 
and  for  hours  at  a  time  he  stood  outside  the  pharmacy,  favor 
ing  every  seeker  for  drugs  or  soap  or  perfume  with  a  scowling 
inspection.  When  he  could  not  do  it,  he  enlisted  Joe  Wilkin- 


35Q  A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

graphn  the  evenings,  and  sometimes  the  two  of  them,  armed, 
smilittrf  the  meeting  halls. 

**"  f\s  a  matter  of  fact,  Joe  Wilkinson  was  following  him  that 
night.  On  his  way  to  the  Cardews  Willy  Cameron,  suddenly 
remembering  the  uncanny  ability  of  Jinx  to  escape  and  trail 
him,  remaining  meanwhile  at  a  safe  distance  in  the  rear, 
turned  suddenly  and  saw  Joe,  walking  sturdily  along  in 
rubber-soled  shoes,  and  obsessed  with  his  high  calling  of 
personal  detective. 

Joe,  discovered,  grinned  sheepishly. 

"Thought  that  looked  like  your  back,"  he  said.  "Nice 
evening  for  a  walk,  isn't  it?" 

"Let  me  look  at  you,  Joe,"  said  Willy  Cameron.  "You 
look  strange  to  me.  Ah,  now  I  have  it.  You  look  like  a 
comet  without  a  tail.  Where's  the  family?" 

"Making  taffy.     How— is  Edith?" 

"Doing  nicely."     He  avoided  the  boy's  eyes. 

"I   guess  I'd  better  tell  you.     Dan's  told  me  about  her. 

I "     Joe  hesitated.     Then:     "She  never  seemed  like  that 

sort  of  a  girl,"  he  finished,  bitterly. 

"She  isn't  that  sort  of  girl,  Joe." 

"She  did  it.  How  could  a  fellow  know  she  wouldn't  do 
it  again?" 

"She  has  had  a  pretty  sad  sort  of  lesson." 

Joe,  his  real  business  forgotten,  walked  on  with  eyes  down 
and  shoulders  drooping. 

"I  might  as  well  finish  with  it,"  he  said,  "now  I've  started. 
I've  always  been  crazy  about  her.  Of  course  now — I  haven't 
slept  for  two  nights." 

"I  think  it's  rather  like  this,  Joe,"  Willy  Cameron  said, 
after  a  pause.  "We  are  not  one  person,  really.  We  are  all 
two  or  three  people,  and  all  different.  We  are  bad  and  good,, 
depending  on  which  of  us  is  the  strangest  at  the  time,  and 
now  and  then  we  pay  so  much  for  the  bad  we  do  that  we 
bury  that  part.  That's  what  has  happened  to  Edith.  Unless, 
of  course,"  he  added,  "we  go  on  convincing  her  that  she 
still  the  thing  she  doesn't  want  to  be." 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 353 

"I'd  like  to  kill  the  man,"  Joe  said.     But  after  a  little,  as 
they  neared  the  edge  of  the  park,  he  looked  up. 
"You  mean,  go  on  as  if  nothing  had  happened?" 
"Precisely,"  said  Willy  Cameron,  "as  though  nothing  had 
happened." 


CHAPTER  XLIII 

THE  atmosphere  of  the  Cardew  house  was  subtly  changed 
and  very  friendly.     Willy  Cameron  found  himself  re 
ceived  as  an  old  friend,  with  no  tendency  to  forget  the  service 
he  had  rendered,  or  that,  in  their  darkest  hour,  he  had  been 
one  of  them. 

To  his  surprise  Pink  Denslow  was  there,  and  he  saw  at 
once  that  Pink  had  been  telling  them  of  the  night  at  the 
farm  house.  Pink  was  himself  again,  save  for  a  small  shaved 
place  at  the  back  of  his  head,  covered  with  plaster. 

"I've  told  them,  Cameron,"  he  said.  "If  I  could  only  tell  | 
it  generally  I'd  be  the  most  popular  man  in  the  city,  at  -j 
dinners." 

"Pair  of  young  fools,"  old  Anthony  muttered,  with  his  sar 
donic  smile.  But  in  his  hand-clasp,  as  in  Howard's,  there 
was  warmth  and  a  sort  of  envy,  envy  of  youth  and  the  ad 
venturous  spirit  of  youth. 

Lily  was  very  quiet.  The  story  had  meant  more  to  her 
than  to  the  others.  She  had  more  nearly  understood  Pink's 
reference  to  the  sealed  envelope  Willy  Cameron  had  left,  and 
the  help  sent  by  Edith  Boyd.  She  connected  that  with  Louis' 
Akers,  and  from  that  to  Akers'  threat  against  Cameron  was' 
only  a  step.  She  was  frightened  and  somewhat  resentful,  that 
this  other  girl  should  have  saved  him  from  a  revenge  that  sha 
knew  was  directed  at  herself.  That  she,  who  had  brought] 
this  thing  about,  had  sat.  quietly  at  home  while  another] 
woman,  a  woman  who  loved  him,  had  saved  him. 

She  was  puzzled  at  her  own  state  of  mind. 

Dinner  was  almost  gay.  Perhaps  the  gayety  was  somewhaaj 
forced,  with  Pink  keeping  his  eyes  from  Lily's  face,  and; 
Howard  Cardew  relapsing  now  and  then  into  abstracted' 
silence.  Because  of  the  men  who  served,  the  conversation 
was  carefully  general.  It  was  only  in  the  library  later,  thi 

354 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN  355 

men  gathered  together  over  their  cigars,,  that  the  real  reason 
for  Willy  Cameron's  summons  was  disclosed. 

Howard  Cardew  was  about  to  withdraw  from  the  contest. 

"I'm  late  in  coming  to  this  decision/'  he  said.  "Perhaps 
too  late.  But  after  a  careful  canvas  of  the  situation,  I  find 
you  are  right,  Cameron.  Unless  I  withdraw,  Akers" — he 
found  a  difficulty  in  speaking  the  name — "will  be  elected.  At 
least  it  looks  that  way." 

"And  if  he  is,"  old  Anthony  put  in,  "he'll  turn  all  the  devils 
of  hell  loose  on  us." 

It  was  late;  very  late.  The  Cardews  stood  ready  to  flood 
the  papers  with  announcements  of  Howard's  withdrawal,  and 
urging  his  supporters  to  vote  for  Hendricks,  but  the  time  was 
short.  Howard  had  asked  his  campaign  managers  to  meet 
there  that  night,  and  also  Hendricks  and  one  or  two  of  his 
men,  but  personally  he  felt  doubtful. 

And,  as  it  happened,  the  meeting  developed  more  enthusiasm 
than  optimism.  Cardew's  withdrawal  would  be  made  the 
most  of  by  the  opposition.  They  would  play  it  up  as  the 
end  of  the  old  regime,  the  beginning  of  new  and  better  things. 

Before  midnight  the  conference  broke  up,  to  catch  the  morn 
ing  editions.  Willy  Cameron,  detained  behind  the  others,  saw 
Lily  in  the  drawing-room  alone  as  he  passed  the  door,  and 
hesitated. 

"I  have  been  waiting  for  you,  Willy/'  she  said. 

But  when  he  went  in  she  seemed  to  have  nothing  to  say. 
She  sat  in  a  low  chair,  in  a  soft  dark  dress  which  empha 
sized  her  paleness.  To  Willy  Cameron  she  had  never  seemed 
more  beautiful,  or  more  remote. 

"Do  you  remember  how  you  used  to  whistle  'The  Long, 
Long  Trail/  Willy  ?"  she  said  at  last.  "All  evening  I  have  been 
sitting  here  thinking  what  a  long  trail  we  have  both  traveled 
since  then." 

"A  long,  hard  trail,"  he  assented. 

"Only  you  have  gone  up,  Willy.  And  I  have  gone  down, 
into  the  valley.  I  wish" — she  smiled  faintly — "I  wish  you 


356  A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

would  look  down  from  your  peak  now  and  then.  You  never 
come  to  see  me." 

"I  didn't  know  you  wanted  me,"  he  said  bluntly. 

"Why  shouldn't  I  want  to  see  you?" 

"I  couldn't  help  reminding  you  of  things." 

"But  I  never  forget  them,  anyhow.  Sometimes  I  almost  go 
mad,  remembering.  It  isn't  quite  as  selfish  as  it  sounds.  I've 
hurt  them  all  so.  Willy,  do  you  mind  telling  me  about  the 
girl  who  opened  that  letter  and  sent  you  help?" 

"About  Edith  Boyd  ?  I'd  like  to  tell  you,  Lily.  Her  mother 
is  dead,  and  she  lost  her  child.  She  is  in  the  Memorial  Hos 
pital." 

"Then  she  has  no  one  but  you?" 

"She  has  a  brother." 

"Tell  me  about  her  sending  help  that  night.  She  really 
saved  your  life,  didn't  she?" 

While  he  was  telling  her  she  sat  staring  straight  ahead, 
her  fingers  interlaced  in  her  lap.  She  was  telling  herself  that 
all  this  could  not  possibly  matter  to  her,  that  she  had  cut 
herself  off,  finally  and  forever,  from  the  man  before  her;  that 
she  did  not  even  deserve  his  friendship. 

Quite  suddenly  she  knew  that  she  did  not  want  his  friend 
ship.  She  wanted  to  see  again  in  his  face  the  look  that  had 
been  there  the  night  he  had  told  her,  very  simply,  that  he 
loved  her.  And  it  would  never  be  there ;  it  was  not  there  now. 
She  had  killed  his  love.  All  the  light  in  his  face  was  for  some 
one  else,  another  girl,  a  girl  more  unfortunate  but  less  wicked 
than  herself. 

When  he  stopped  she  was  silent.    Then : 

"I  wonder  if  you  know  how  much  you  have  told  me  that 
you  did  not  intend  to  tell?" 

"That  I  didn't  intend  to  tell  ?  I  have  made  no  reservations, 
Lily." 

"Are  you  sure?    Or  don't  you  realize  it  yourself?" 

"Realize  what?"     He  was  greatly   ouz^Jed. 

"I  think,  Willy,"  she  said,  quietly,  'that  you  care  a  great 
deal  more  for  Edith  Boyd  than  you  think  you  do. 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 357 

He  looked  at  her  in  stupefaction.  How  could  she  say  that? 
How  could  she  fail  to  know  better  than  that  ?  And  he  did  not 
see  the  hurt  behind  her  careful  smile. 

"You  are  wrong  about  that.  I "  He  made  a  little  ges 
ture  of  despair.  He  could  not  tell  her  now  that  he  loved  her. 
That  was  all  over. 

"She  is  in  love  with  you." 

He  felt  absurd  and  helpless.  He  could  not  deny  that,  yet 
how  could  she  sit  there,  cool  and  faintly  smiling,  and  not 
know  that  as  she  sat  there  so  she  sat  enshrined  in  his  heart. 
She  was  his  saint,  to  kneel  and  pray  to;  and  she  was  his 
woman,  the  one  woman  of  his  life.  More  woman  than  saint, 
he  knew,  and  even  for  that  he  loved  her.  But  he  did  not  know 
the  barbarous  cruelty  of  the  loving  woman. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  say  to  you,  Lily,"  he  said,  at  last. 
"She — it  is  possible  that  she  thinks  she  cares,  but  under  the 
circumstances " 

"Ellen  told  Mademoiselle  you  were  going  to  marry  her. 
That's  true,  isn't  it  ?" 

"Yes." 

"You  always  said  that  marriage  without  love  was  wicked, 
Willy/' 

"Her  child  had  a  right  to  a  name.  And  there  were 
other  things.  I  can't  very  well  explain  them  to  you.  Her 
mother  was  ill.  Can't  you  understand,  Lily?  I  don't  want 
to  throw  any  heroics."  In  his  excitement  he  had  lapsed  into 
boyish  vernacular.  "Here  was  a  plain  problem,  and  a  simple 
way  to  solve  it.  But  it  is  off  now,  anyhow ;  things  cleared  up 
without  that." 

She  got  up  and  held  out  her  hand. 

"It  was  like  you  to  try  to  save  her,"  she  said,. 

"Does  this  mean  I  am  to  go?" 

"I  am  very  tired,  Willy." 

He  had  a  mad  impulse  to  take  her  in  his  arms,  and  holding 
her  close  to  rest  her  there.  She  looked  so  tired.  For  fear 
he  might  do  it  he  held  his  arms  rigidly  at  his  sides. 

'You  haven't  asked  me  about  him,'*  she  said  unexpectedly. 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 


"I  thought  you  would  not  care  to  talk  about  him.  That's 
over  and  done,  Lily.  I  want  to  forget  about  it,  myself." 

She  looked  up  at  him,  and  had  he  had  Louis  Akers'  intui 
tive  knowledge  of  women  he  would  have  understood  then. 

"I  am  never  going  back  to  him,  Willy.  You  know  that, 
don't  you  ?" 

"I  hoped  it,  of  course." 

"I  know  now  that  I  never  loved  him/' 

But  the  hurt  of  her  marriage  was  still  too  fresh  in  him  for 
speech.  He  could  not  discuss  Louis  Akers  with  her. 

"No,"  he  said,  after  a  moment,  "I  don't  think  you  ever  did, 
t'll  come  in  some  evening,  if  I  may,  Lily.  I  must  not  keep 
you  up  now." 

How  old  he  looked,  for  him  !    How  far  removed  from  those 
busy,  cheerful  days  at  the  camp  !     And  there  were  new  lines 
of  repression  in  his  face  ;  from  the  nostrils  to  the  corners  o: 
his  mouth.     Above  his  ears  his  hair  showed  a  faint  cast  o: 
gray. 

"You  have  been  having  rather  a  hard  time,  Willy,  haven't 
you?"  she  said,  suddenly. 

"I  have  been  busy,  of  course." 

"And  worried  ?" 

"Sometimes.    But  things  are  clearing  up  now." 

She  was  studying  him  with  the  newly  opened  eyes  of  love 
What  was  it  he  showed  that  the  other  men  she  knew  lacked? 
Sensitiveness  ?  Kindness  ?  But  her  father  was  both  sensitive 
and  kind.  So  was  Pink,  in  less  degree.  In  the  end  she 
answered  her  own  question,  and  aloud. 

"I  think  it  is  patience,"  she  said.  And  to  his  unspoken 
question:  "You  are  very  patient,  aren't  you?" 

"I  never  thought  about  it.  For  heaven's  sake  don't  turn 
my  mind  in  on  myself,  Lily.  I'll  be  running  around  in  cir 
cles  like  a  pup  chasing  his  tail." 

He  made  a  movement  to  leave,  but  she  seemed  oddly  re 
luctant  to  let  him  go. 

"Do  you  know  that  father  says  you  have  more  influence 
than  any  other  man  in  the  city  ?" 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 359 

"That's  more  kind  than  truthful." 

"And — I  think  he  and  grandfather  are  planning  to  try  to 
get  you,  when  the  mills  reopen.  Father  suggested  it,  but 
grandfather  says  you'd  have  the  presidency  of  the  company 
in  six  months,  and  he'd  be  sharpening  your  lead  pencils." 

Suddenly  Willy  Cameron  laughed,  and  the  tension  was 
broken. 

f'If  he  did  it  with  his  tongue  they'd  be  pretty  sharp,"  he 
said. 

For  just  a  moment,  before  he  left,  they  were  back  to  where 
they  had  been  months  ago,  enjoying  together  their  small  jokes 
and  their  small  mishaps.  The  present  fell  away,  with  its 
hovering  tragedy,  and  they  were  boy  and  girl  together.  Ex 
altation  and  sacrifice  were  a  part  of  their  love,  as  of  all  real 
and  lasting  passion,  but  there  was  always  between  them  also 
that  soundest  bond  of  all,  liking  and  comradeship. 

"I  love  her.  I  like  her.  I  adore  her,"  was  the  cry  in  Willy 
Cameron's  heart  when  he  started  home  that  night. 


CHAPTER  XLIV 

ELINOR  Doyle  was  up  and  about  her  room.  She  walked 
slowly  and  with  difficulty,  using  crutches,  and  she  spent 
most  of  the  time  at  her  window,  watching  and  waiting.  From 
Lily  there  came,  at  frequent  intervals,  notes,  flowers  and  small 
delicacies.  The  flowers  and  food  Olga  brought  to  her,  but  the; 
notes  she  never  saw.  She  knew  they  came.  She  could  see 
the  car  stop  at  the  curb,  and  the  chauffeur,  his  shoulders 
squared  and  his  face  watchful,  carrying  a  white  envelope  up 
the  walk,  but  there  it  ended. 

She  felt  more  helpless  than  ever.  The  doctor  came  less 
often,  but  the  vigilance  was  never  relaxed,  and  she  had,  too, 
less  and  less  hope  of  being  able  to  give  any  warning.  Doylei 
was  seldom  at  home,  and  when  he  was  he  had  ceased  to  give 
her  his  taunting  information.  She  was  quite  sure  now  of  his 
relations  with  the  Russian  girl,  and  her  uncertainty  as  to  her 
course  was  gone.  She  was  no  longer  his  wife.  He  held 
another  woman  in  his  rare  embraces,  a  traitor  like  himself.  It 
was  sordid.  He  was  sordid. 

Woslosky  had  developed  blood  poisoning,  and  was  at 'the 
point  of  death,  with  a  stolid  policeman  on  guard  at  his  bed 
side.  She  knew  that  from  the  newspapers  she  occasionally; 
saw.  And  she  connected  Doyle  unerringly  with  the  tragedy 
at  the  farm  behind  Friendship.  She  recognized,  too,  since 
that  failure,  a  change  in  his  manner  to  her.  She  saw  that  he 
now  both  hated  her  and  feared  her,  and  that  she  had  become 
only  a  burden  and  a  menace  to  him.  He  might  decide  to  do 
away  v/ith  her,  to  kill  her.  He  would  not  do  it  himself;  he 
never  did  his  own  dirty  work,  but  the  Russian  girl — 

Olga  was  in  love  with  Jim  Doyle.  Elinor  Jcnew  that,  as 
she  knew  many  things,  by  a  sort  of  intuition.  She  watched 
them  in  the  room  together,  and  she  knew  that  to  Doyle  the 
girl  was  an  incident,  the  vehicle  of  his  occasional  passion,  a 

360 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 361 

strumpet  and  a  tool.  He  did  not  even  like  her;  she  saw  him 
looking  at  her  sometimes  with  a  sort  of  amused  contempt. 
But  Olga's  somber  eyes  followed  him  as  he  moved,  lit  with 
passion  and  sometimes  with  anger,  but  always  they  followed 
him. 

She  was  afraid  of  Olga.  She  did  not  care  particularly 
about  death,  but  it  must  not  come  before  she  had  learned 
enough  to  be  able  to  send  out  a  warning.  She  thought  if  it 
came  it  might  be  by  poison  in  the  food  that  was  sent  up,  but 
she  had  to  eat  to  live.  She  took  to  eating  only  one  thing  on 
her  tray,  and  she  thought  she  detected  in  the  girl  an  under 
standing  and  a  veiled  derision. 

By  Doyle's  increasing  sullenness  she  knew  things  were  not 
going  well  with  him,  and  she  found  a  certain  courage  in  that, 
but  she  knew  him  too  well  to  believe  that  he  would  give  up 
easily.  And  she  drew  certain  deductions  from  the  news 
papers  she  studied  so  tirelessly.  She  saw  the  announcement 
of  the  unusual  number  of  hunting  licenses  issued,  for  one 
thing,  and  she  knew  the  cover  that  such  licenses  furnished 
armed  men  patrolling  the  country.  The  state  permitted  the 
sale  of  fire-arms  without  restriction.  Other  states  did  the 
same,  or  demanded  only  the  formality  of  a  signature,  never 
verified. 

Would  they  never  wake  to  the  situation? 

She  watched  the  election  closely.  She  knew  that  if  Akers 
were  elected  the  general  strike  and  the  chaos  to  follow  would 
be  held  back  until  he  had  taken  office  and  made  the  necessary 
changes  in  the  city  administration,  but  that  if  he  went  down 
to  defeat  the  Council  would  turn  loose  its  impatient  hordes  at 
once. 

She  waited  for  election  day  with  burning  anxiety.  When 
it  came  it  so  happened  that  she  was  left  alone  all  day  in  the 
house.  Early  in  the  morning  Olga  brought  her  a  tray  and 
told  her  she  was  going  out.  She  was  changed,  the  Russian; 
she  had  dropped  the  mask  of  sodden  servility  and  stood  before 
her,  erect,  cunningly  intelligent  and  oddly  powerful. 


362 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

"I  am  going  to  be  away  all  day,  Mrs.  Doyle,"  she  said,  in 
her  excellent  English.    "I  have  work  to  do." 
\  "Work?"  said  Elinor.     "Isn't  there  work  to  do  here?" 

"I  am  not  a  house-worker.  I  came  to  help  Mr.  Doyle. 
To-day  I  shall  make  speeches/' 

Elinor  was -Claying  the  game  carefully. 

"But — can  you  make  speeches?"  she  asked. 

"Me?  That  is  my  work,  here,  in  Russia,  everywhere.  In 
Russia  it  is  the  women  who  speak,  the  men  who  do  what  the 
women  tell  them  to  do.  Here  some  day  it  will  be  the  same." 

Always  afterwards  Elinor  remembered  the  five  minutes 
that  followed,  for  Olga,  standing  before  her,  suddenly  burst 
into  impassioned  oratory.  She  cited  the  wrongs  of  the  poor 
under  the  old  regime.  She  painted  in  glowing  colors  the  new. 
She  was  excited,  hectic,  powerful.  Elinor  in  her  chair,  an 
aristocrat  to  the  finger-tips,  was  frightened,  interested, 
thrilled. 

Long  after  Olga  had  gone  she  sat  there,  wondering  at  the 
real  conviction,  the  intensity  of  passion,  of  hate  and  of  revenge 
that  actuated  this  newest  tool  of  Doyle's.  Doyle  and  his  as 
sociates  might  be  actuated  by  self-interest,  but  the  real  danger 
in  the  movement  lay  not  with  the  Doyles  of  the  world,  but 
with  these  fanatic  liberators.  They  preached  to  the  poor  a 
new  religion,  not  of  creed  or  of  Church,  but  of  freedom. 
Freedom  without  laws  of  God  or  of  man,  freedom  of  love, 
of  lust,  of  time,  of  all  responsibility.  And  the  poor,  weighted 
with  laws  and  cares,  longed  to  throw  off  their  burdens. 

Perhaps  it  was  not  the  doctrine  itself  that  was  wrong.  It 
was  its  imposition  by  force  on  a  world  not  yet  ready  for 
it  that  was  wrong ;  its  imposition  by  violence.  It  might  come, 
but  not  this  way.  Not,  God  preventing,  this  way. 

There  was  a  polling  place  across  the  street,  in  the  basement 
of  a  school  house.  The  vote  was  heavy  and  all  day  men 
lounged  on  the  pavements,  smoking  and  talking.  Once  she 
saw  Olga  in  the  crowd,  and  later  on  Louis  Akers  drove  up  in 
an  open  automobile,  handsome,  apparently  confident,  and 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 363 

greeted  with  cheers.     But  Elinor,  knowing  him  well,  gained 
nothing  from  his  face. 

Late  that  night  she  heard  Doyle  come  in  and  move  about 
the  lower  floor.  She  knew  every  emphasis  of  is  walk,  and 
when  in  the  room  underneath  she  heard  him  oeitle  down  to 
steady,  deliberate  pacing,  she  knew  that  he  was  facing  some 
new  situation,  and,  after  his  custom,  thinking  it  out  alone. 

At  midnight  he  came  up  the  stairs  and  unlocked  her  door. 
He  entered,  closing  the  door  behind  him,  and  stood  looking 
at  her.  His  face  was  so  strange  that  she  wondered  if  he  had 
decided  to  do  away  with  her. 

"To-morrow,"  he  said,  in  an  inflectionless  voice,  "you  will 
be  moved  by  automobile  to  a  farm  I  have  selected  in  the 
country.  You  will  take  only  such  small  luggage  as  the  car 
can  carry." 

"Is  Olga  going  with  me  ?" 

"No.     Olga  is  needed  here." 

"I  suppose  I  am  to  understand  from  this  that  Louis  has 
been  defeated,  and  there  is  no  longer  any  reason  for  delay  in 
your  plans." 

"You  can  understand  what  you  like." 

"Am  I  to  know  where  I  am  going?" 

"You  will  find  that  out  when  you  get  there.  I  will  tell 
you  this :  It  is  a  lonely  place,  without  a  telephone.  You'll  be 
cut  off  from  your  family,  I  am  afraid." 

She  gazed  at  him.  It  seemed  unbelievable  to  her  that  she 
had  once  lain  in  this  man's  arms. 

"Why  don't  you  kill  me,  Jim?  I  know  you've  thought 
about  it." 

"Yes,  I've  thought  of  it.  But  killing  is  a  confession  of  fear, 
my  dear.  I  am  not  afraid  of  you." 

"I  think  you  are.  You  are  afraid  now  to  tell  me  when  you 
are  going  to  try  to  put  this  wild  plan  into  execution." 

He  smiled  at  her  with  mocking  eyes. 

"Yes,"  he  agreed  again.  "I  am  afraid.  You  have  a  sort 
of  diabolical  ingenuity,  not  intelligence  so  much  as  cunning. 


364 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

But  because  I  always  do  the  thing  I'm  afraid  to  do,  I'll  tell 

you.  Of  course,  if  you  succeed  in  passing  it  on "  He 

shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Very  well,  then.  With  your  usual 
logic  of  deduction,  you  have  guessed  correctly.  Louis  Akers 
has  been  defeated.  Your  family — and  how  strangely  you  are 
a  Cardew ! — lost  its  courage  at  the  last  moment,  and  a  gentle 
man  named  Hendricks  is  now  setting  up  imitation  beer  and 
cheap  cigars  to  his  friends." 

Behind  his  mocking  voice  she  knew  the  real  fury  of  the 
man,  kept  carefully  in  control  by  his  iron  will. 

"As  you  have  also  correctly  surmised,"  he  went  on,  "there 
is  now  nothing  to  be  gained  by  any  delay.  A  very  few  days, 

three  or  four,  and "  His  voice  grew  hard  and  terrible — 

"the  first  stone  in  the  foundation  of  this  capitalistic  govern 
ment  will  go.  Inevitable  law,  inevitable  retribution "  His 

voice  trailed  off.  He  turned  like  a  man  asleep  and  went 
toward  the  door.  There  he  stopped  and  faced  her. 

"I've  told  you,"  he  said  darkly.  "I  am  not  afraid  of  you. 
You  can  no  more  stop  this  thing  than  you  can  stop  living  by 
ceasing  to  breathe.  It  has  come." 

She  heard  him  in  his  room  for  some  time  after  that,  and 
she  surmised  from  the  way  he  moved,  from  closet  to  bed 
and  back  again,  that  he  was  packing  a  bag.  At  two  o'clock 
she  heard  Olga  coming  in;  the  girl  was  singing  in  Russian, 
and  Elinor  had  a  sickening  conviction  that  she  had  been 
drinking.  She  heard  Doyle  send  her  off  to  bed,  his  voice 
angry  and  disgusted,  and  resume  his  packing,  and  ten  minutes 
later  she  heard  a  car  draw  up  on  the  street,  and  knew  that 
he  was  off,  to  begin  the  mobilization  of  his  heterogeneous 
forces. 

Ever  since  she  had  been  able  to  leave  her  bed  Elinor  had 
been  formulating  a  plan  of  escape.  Once  the  door  had  been 
left  unlocked,  but  her  clothing  had  been  removed  from  the 
room,  and  then,  too,  she  had  not  learned  the  thing  she  was 
waiting  for.  Now  she  had  clothing,  a  dark  dressing  gown 
and  slippers,  and  she  had  the  information.  But  the  door  was 
securely  locked. 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 365 

She  had  often  thought  of  the  window.  In  the  day  time  it 
frightened  hei  to  look  down,  although  it  fascinated  her,  too. 
But  at  night  it  seemed  much  simpler.  The  void  below  was 
concealed  in  the  darkness,  a  soft  darkness  that  hid  the  hard, 
inhospitable  earth.  A  darkness  one  could  fall  into  and  onto. 

She  was  not  a  brave  woman.  She  had  moral  rather  than 
physical  courage.  It  was  easier  for  her  to  face  Doyle  in  a 
black  mood  than  the  gulf  below  the  window-sill,  but  she 
knew  now  that  she  must  get  away,  if  she  were  to  go  at  all. 
She  got  out  of  bed,  and  using  her  crutches  carefully  moved 
to  the  sill,  trying  to  accustom  herself  to  the  thought  of  going 
over  the  edge.  The  plaster  cast  on  her  leg  was  a  real  handi 
cap.  She  must  get  it  over  first.  How  heavy  it  was,  and 
unwieldy ! 

She  found  her  scissors,  and,  stripping  the  bed,  sat  down 
to  cut  and  tear  the  bedding  into  strips.  Prisoners  escaped 
that  way;  she  had  read  about  such  things.  But  the  knots 
took  up  an  amazing  amount  of  length.  It  was  four  o'clock  in 
the  morning  when  she  had  a  serviceable  rope,  and  she  knew  it 
was  too  short.  In  the  end  she  tore  down  the  window  curtains 
and  added  them,  working  desperately  against  time. 

She  began  to  suspect,  too,  that  Olga  was  not  sleeping.  She 
smelled  faintly  the  odor  of  the  long  Russian  cigarettes  the 
girl  smoked.  She  put  out  her  light  and  worked  in  the 
darkness,  a  strange  figure  of  adventure,  this  middle-aged 
woman  with  her  smooth  hair  and  lined  face,  sitting  in  her 
cambric  nightgown  with  her  crutches  on  the  floor  beside  her. 

She  secured  the  end  of  the  rope  to  the  foot  of  her  metal 
bed,  pushing  the  bed  painfully  and  cautiously,  inch  by  inch, 
to  the  window.  And  in  so  doing  she  knocked  over  the  call- 
bell  on  the  stand,  and  almost  immediately  she  heard  Olga 
moving  about. 

The  girl  was  coming  unsteadily  toward  the  door.  If  she 
opened  it — 

"I  don't  want  anything,  Olga,"  she  called,  "I  knocked  the 
bell  over  accidentally/' 


366       '         A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

Olga  hesitated,  muttered,  moved  away  again.  Elinor  was 
covered  with  a  cold  sweat. 

She  began  to  think  of  the  window  as  a  refuge.  Surely 
nothing  outside  could  be  so  terrible  as  this  house  itself.  The 
black  aperture  seemed  friendly;  it  beckoned  to  her  with 
friendly  hands. 

She  dropped  her  crutches.  They  fell  with  two  soft  thuds 
on  the  earth  below  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  they  were  a 
long  time  in  falling.  She  listened  after  that,  but  Olga  made 
no  sign.  Then  slowly  and  painfully  she  worked  her  injured 
leg  over  the  sill,  and  sat  there  looking  down  and  breathing 
with  difficulty.  Then  she  freed  her  dressing  gown  around 
her,  and  slid  over  the  edge. 


CHAPTER  XLV 

ELECTION  night  found  various  groups  in  various  places. 
In  the  back  room  of  the  Eagle  Pharmacy  was  gathered 
once  again  the  neighborhood  forum,  a  wildly  excited  forum, 
which  ever  and  anon  pounded  Mr.  Hendricks  on  the  back, 
and  drank  round  after  round  of  soda  water  and  pop.  Doctor 
Smalley,  coming  in  rather  late  found  them  all  there,  calling 
Mr.  Hendricks  "Mr.  Mayor"  or  "Your  Honor/'  reciting  elec 
tion  anecdotes,  and  prophesying  the  end  of  the  Reds.  Only 
Willy  Cameron,  sitting  on  a  table  near  the  window,  was  silent. 

Mr.  Hendricks,  called  upon  for  a  speech,  rose  with  his 
soda  water  glass  in  his  hand. 

"I've  got  a  toast  for  you,  boys,"  he  said.  "You've  been 
talking  all  evening  about  my  winning  this  election.  Well, 
I've  been  elected,  but  I  didn't  win  it.  It  was  the  plain  people 
of  this  town  who  elected  me,  and  they  did  it  because  my 
young  friend  on  the  table  yonder  told  them  to."  He  raised 
his  glass.  "Cameron !"  he  said. 

"Cameron!  Cameron!"  shouted  the  crowd.  "Speech! 
Cameron !" 

But  Willy  shook  his  head. 

"I  haven't  any  voice  left,"  he  said,  "and  you've  heard  me 
say  all  I  know  a  dozen  times.  The  plain  truth  is  that  Mr. 
Hendricks  got  the  election  because  he  was  the  best  man,  and 
enough  people  knew  it.  That's  all." 

To  Mr.  Hendricks  the  night  was  one  of  splendid  solemnity. 
He  felt  at  once  very  strong  and  very  weak,  very  proud  and 
very  humble.  He  would  do  his  best,  and  if  honesty  meant 
anything,  the  people  would  have  it,  but  he  knew  that  honesty 
was  not  enough.  The  city  needed  a  strong  man;  he  hoped 
that  the  Good  Man  who  made  cities  as  He  made  men,  both 
evil  and  good,  would  lend  him  a  hand  with  things.  As  prayer 
in  his  mind  was  indissolubly  connected  with  church,  he  made 

367 


368 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

up  his  mind  to  go  to  church  the  next  Sunday  and  get  matters 
straightened  out. 

At  the  same  time  another  group  was  meeting  at  the  Bene 
dict. 

Louis  Akers  had  gone  home  early.  By  five  o'clock  he 
knew  that  the  chances  were  against  him,  but  he  felt  a  real 
lethargy  as  to  the  outcome.  He  had  fought,  and  fought  hard, 
but  it  was  only  the  surface  mind  of  him  that  struggled. 
Only  the  surface  mind  of  him  hated,  and  had  ambitions,  and 
dreamed  revenge.  Underneath  that  surface  mind  was  a 
sore  that  ate  like  a  cancer,  and  that  sore  was  his  desertion  by 
Lily  Cardew.  For  once  in  his  life  he  suffered,  who  had  always 
inflicted  pain. 

At  six  o'clock  Doyle  had  called  him  on  the  telephone  and 
told  him  that  Woslosky  was  dead,  but  the  death  of  the  Pole 
had  been  discounted  in  advance,  and  already  his  place  had 
been  filled  by  a  Russian  agent,  who  had  taken  the  first  syllable 
of  his  name  and  called  himself  Ross.  Louis  Akers  heard  the 
news  apathetically,  and  went  back  to  his  chair  again. 

By  eight  o'clock  he  knew  that  he  had  lost  the  election,  but 
that,  too,  seemed  relatively  unimportant.  He  was  not  thinking 
coherently,  but  certain  vague  ideas  floated  through  his  mind. 
There  was  a  law  of  compensation  in  the  universe:  it  was  all 
rot  to  believe  that  one  was  paid  or  punished  in  the  hereafter 
for  what  one  did.  Hell  was  real,  but  it  was  on  earth  and  its 
place  was  in  a  man's  mind.  He  couldn't  get  away  from  it, 
because  each  man  carried  his  own  hell  around  with  him.  It 
was  all  stored  up  there ;  nothing  he  had  done  was  left  out,  and 
the  more  he  put  into  it  the  more  he  got  out,  when  the  time 
came. 

This  was  his  time. 

Ross  and  Doyle,  with  one  or  two  others,  found  him  tnere 
at  nine  o'clock,  an  untasted  meal  on  the  table,  and  the  ends 
of  innumerable  cigarettes  on  the  hearth.  In  the  conference 
that  followed  he  took  but  little  part.  The  Russian  urged 
immediate  action,  and  Doyle  by  a  saturnine  silence  tacitly 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 369 

agreed  with  him.  But  Louis  only  half  heard  them.  His 
mind  was  busy  with  that  matter  of  hell.  Only  once  he  looked 
up.  Ross  was  making  use  of  the  phrase :  "Militant  minority." 

"Militant  minority!"  he  said  scornfully,  "you  overwork  that 
idea,  Ross.  What  weVe  got  here  now  is  a  militant  majority, 
and  that's  what  elected  Hendricks.  You're  licked  before  you 
begin.  And  my  advice  is,  don't  begin." 

But  they  laughed  at  him. 

"You  act  like  a  whipped  dog,"  Doyle  said,  "crawling  under 
the  doorstep  for  fear  somebody  else  with  a  strap  comes  along." 

"They're  organized  against  us.  We  could  have  put  it  over 
six  months  ago.  Not  now." 

"Then  you'd  better  get  out/'  Doyle  said,  shortly. 

"I'm  thinking  of  it." 

But  Doyle  had  no  real  fear  of  him.  He  was  sulky.  Well, 
let  him  sulk. 

Akers  relapsed  into  silence.  His  interest  in  the  conspiracy 
had  always  been  purely  self-interest;  he  had  never  had 
Woslosky's  passion,  or  Doyle's  cold  fanaticism.  They  had 
carried  him  off  his  feet  with  their  promises,  but  how  much 
were  they  worth?  They  had  failed  to  elect  him.  Every  bit 
of  brains,  cunning  and  resource  in  their  organization  had 
been  behind  him,  and  they  had  failed. 

This  matter  of  hell,  now?  Suppose  one  put  by  something 
on  the  other  account  ?  Suppose  one  turned  square  ?  Wouldn't 
that  earn  something?  Suppose  that  one  went  to  the  Cardews 
and  put  all  his  cards  on  the  table,  asking  nothing  in  return? 
Suppose  one  gave  up  the  by-paths  of  life,  and  love  in  a 
hedgerow,  and  did  the  other  thing?  Wouldn't  that  earn  some 
thing? 

He  roused  himself  and  took  a  perfunctory  part  in  the  con 
versation,  but  his  mind  obstinately  returned  to  itself.  He 
knew  every  rendezvous  of  the  Red  element  in  the  country; 
he  knew  where  their  literature  was  printed ;  he  knew  the  store 
houses  of  arms  and  ammunition,  and  the  plans  for  carrying 
on  the  city  government  by  the  strikers  after  the  reign  of 
terrorization  which  was  to  subdue  the  citizens. 


37Q  A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

Suppose  he  turned  informer?  Could  he  set  a  price,  and 
that  price  Lily?  But  he  discarded  that.  He  was  not  selling 
now,  he  was  earning.  He  would  set  himself  right  first,  and — 
provided  the  government  got  the  leaders  before  those  leaders 
got  him,  as  they  would  surely  try  to  do — he  would  have 
earned  something,  surely. 

Lily  had  come  to  him  once  when  he  called.  She  might 
come  again,  when  he  had  earned  her. 

Doyle  sat  back  in  his  chair  and  watched  him.  He  saw 
that  he  had  gone  to  pieces  under  defeat,  and  men  did  strange 
things  at  those  times.  With  uncanny  shrewdness  he  gauged 
Akers'  reaction;  his  loss  of  confidence  and,  he  surmised,  his 
loyalty.  He  would  follow  his  own  interest  now,  and  if  he 
thought  that  it  lay  in  turning  informer,  he  might  try  it.  But 
it  would  take  courage. 

When  the  conference  broke  up  Doyle  was  sure  of  where 
his  man  stood.  He  was  not  worried.  They  did  not  need 
Akers  any  longer.  He  had  been  a  presentable  tool,  a  lay 
figure  to  give  the  organization  front,  and  they  had  over-rated 
him,  at  that.  He  had  failed  them.  Doyle,  watching  him  con 
temptuously,  realized  in  him  his  own  fallacious  judgment,  and 
hated  Akers  for  proving  him  wrong. 

Outside  the  building  Doyle  drew  the  Russian  aside,  and 
spoke  to  him.  Ross  started,  then  grinned. 

"You're  wrong,"  he  said.  "He  won't  try  it.  But  of  course 
he  may,  and  we'll  see  that  he  doesn't  get  away  with  it." 

From  that  time  on  Louis  Akers  was  under  espionage. 


CHAPTER  XLVI 

DOCTOR  Smalley  was  by  way  of  achieving  a  practice. 
During  his  morning  and  evening  office  hours  he  had  less 
and  less  time  to  read  the  papers  and  the  current  magazines  in 
his  little  back  office,  or  to  compare  the  month's  earnings,  visit 
by  visit,  with  the  same  month  of  the  previous  year. 

He  took  to  making  his  hospital  rounds  early  in  the  morn 
ing,  rather  to  the  outrage  of  various  head  nurses,  who  did 
not  like  the  staff  to  come  a-visiting  until  every  counterpane 
was  drawn  stiff  and  smooth,  every  bed  corner  a  geometrical 
angle,  every  patient  washed  and  combed  and  temperatured, 
and  in  the  exact  center  of  the  bed. 

Internes  were  different.  They  were  like  husbands.  They 
came  and  went,  seeing  things  at  their  worst  as  well  as  at  their 
best,  but  mostly  at  their  worst.  Like  husbands,  too,  they 
developed  a  sort  of  philosophy  as  to  the  early  morning,  and 
would  only  make  occasional  remarks,  such  as : 

"Cyclone  struck  you  this  morning,  or  anything?" 

Doctor  Smalley,  being  a  bachelor,  was  entirely  blind  to  the 
early  morning  deficiencies  of  his  wards.  Besides,  he  was 
young  and  had  had  a  cold  shower  and  two  eggs  and  various 
other  things,  and  he  saw  the  world  at  eight  A.  M.  as  a  good 
place.  He  would  get  into  his  little  car,  whistling,  and  driving 
through  the  market  square  he  would  sometimes  stop  and  buy 
a  bag  of  apples  for  the  children's  ward,  or  a  bunch  of  fall 
flowers.  Thus  armed,  it  was  impossible  for  the  most  austere 
of  head  nurses  to  hate  him. 

"We're  not  straightened  up  yet,  doctor,"  they  would  say. 

"Looks  all  right  to  me,"  he  would  reply  cheerfully,  and  cast 
an  eager  eye  over  the  ward.  To  him  they  were  all  his  children, 
large  and  small,  and  if  he  did  not  exactly  carry  healing  in 
his  wings,  having  no  wings,  he  brought  them  courage  and  a 
breath  of  fresh  morning  air,  slightly  tinged  with  bay  rum,  and 

37i 


372 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

the  feeling  that  this  was  a  new  day.  A  new  page,  on  which 
to  write  such  wonderful  things  (in  the  order  book)  as: 
"Jennie  may  get  up  this  afternoon."  Or:  "Lizzie  Smith, 
small  piece  of  beef  steak." 

On  the  morning  after  the  election  Doctor  Smalley  rose 
unusually  early,  and  did  five  minutes  of  dumb  bells,  breathing 
very  deep  before  his  window,  having  started  the  cold  water 
in  the  tub  first.  At  the  end  of  that  time  he  padded  in  his 
bare  feet  to  the  top  of  the  stairs  and  called  in  a  huge,  deep- 
breathing  voice: 

"Ten  minutes." 

These  two  cryptic  words  seeming  to  be  perfectly  understood 
below,  followed  the  sound  of  a  body  plunging  into  water,  a 
prolonged  "Wow!"  from  the  bathroom,  and  noisy  hurried 
splashing.  Dressing  was  a  rapid  process,  due  to  a  method 
learned  during  college  days,  which  consists  of  wearing  as 
little  as  possible,  and  arranging  it  at  night  so  that  two  thrusts 
(trousers  and  under-drawers),  one  enveloping  gesture  (shirt 
and  under-shirt),  and  a  gymnastic  effort  of  standing  first  on 
one  leg  and  then  on  the  other  (socks  and  shoes),  made  a  fairly 
completed  toilet. 

While  putting  on  his  collar  and  tie  the  doctor  stood  again 
by  the  window,  and  lustily  called  the  garage  across  the 
narrow  street. 

"Jim!"  he  yelled.     "Annabelle  breakfasted  yet?" 

Annabelle  was  his  shabby  little  car. 

Annabelle  had  breakfasted,  on  gasoline,  oil  and  water.  The 
doctor  finished  tying  his  tie,  singing  lustily,  and  went  to  the 
door.  At  the  door  he  stopped  singing,  put  on  a  carefully  pro 
fessional  air,  restrained  an  impulse  to  slide  down  the  stair- 
rail,  and  descended  with  the  dignity  of  a  man  with  a  growing 
practice  and  a  possible  patient  in  the  waiting-room. 

At  half-past  seven  he  was  on  his  way  to  the  hospital.  He 
stopped  at  the  market  and  bought  three  dozen  oranges  out 
of  a  ten-dollar  bill  he  had  won  on  the  election,  and  almost 
bought  a  live  rabbit  because  it  looked  so  dreary  in  its  slatted 
box.  He  restrained  himself,  because  his  housekeeper  had  a 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 373 

weakness  for  stewed  rabbit,  and  turned  into  Cardew  Way. 

He  passed  the  Doyle  house  slowly,  inspecting  it  as  he  went, 
because  he  had  a  patient  there,  and  because  he  had  felt  that 
there  was  something  mysterious  about  the  household,  quite 
aside  from  the  saturnine  Doyle  himself.  He  knew  all  about 
Doyle,  of  course;  all,  that  is,  that  there  was  to  know,  but  he 
was  a  newcomer  to  the  city,  and  he  did  not  know  that 
Doyle's  wife  was  a  Cardew.  Sometimes  he  had  felt  that 
he  was  under  a  sort  of  espionage  all  the  time  he  was  in  the 
house.  But  that  was  ridiculous,  wasn't  it?  Because  they 
could  not  know  that  he  was  on  the  Vigilance  Committee. 

There  was  something  curious  about  one  of  the  windows. 
He  slowed  Annabel le  and  gazed  at  it.  That  was  strange; 
there  was  a  sort  of  white  rope  hanging  from  Mrs.  Doyle's 
window. 

He  stopped  Annabelle  and  stared.  Then  he  drew  up  to  the 
curb  and  got  out  of  the  car.  He  was  rather  uneasy  when  he 
opened  the  gate  and  started  up  the  walk,  but  there  was  no 
movement  of  life  in  the  house.  At  the  foot  of  the  steps  he 
saw  something,  and  almost  stopped  breathing.  Behind  a 
clump  of  winter-bare  shrubbery  was  what  looked  like  a  dark 
huddle  of  clothing. 

It  was  incredible. 

He  parted  the  branches  and  saw  Elinor  Doyle  lying  there, 
conscious  and  white  with  pain.  Perhaps  never  in  his  life 
was  Doctor  Smalley  to  be  so  rewarded  as  with  the  look  in 
her  eyes  when  she  saw  him. 

"Why,  Mrs.  Doyle !"  was  all  he  could  think  to  say. 

"I  have  broken  my  other  leg,  doctor,"  she  said,  "the  rope 
gave  way." 

"You  come  down  that  rope?" 

"I  tried  to.  I  was  a  prisoner.  Don't  take  me  back  to  the 
house,  doctor.  Don't  take  me  back !" 

"Of  course  I'll  not  take  you  back,"  he  said,  soothingly.  "I'll 
carry  you  out  to  my  car.  It  may  hurt,  but  try  to  be  quiet. 
Can  you  get  your  arms  around  my  neck  ?" 

She  managed  that,  and  he  raised  her  slowly,  but  the  pain 


374 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

must  have  been  frightful,  for  a  moment  later  he  felt  her 
arms  relax  and  knew  that  she  had  fainted.  He  got  to  the 
car  somehow,  kicked  the  oranges  into  the  gutter,  and  placed 
her,  collapsed,  on  the  seat.  It  was  only  then  that  he  dared 
to  look  behind  him,  but  the  house,  like  the  street,  was  without 
signs  of  life.  As  he  turned  the  next  corner,  however,  he 
saw  Doyle  getting  off  a  streetcar,  and  probably  never  before 
had  Annabelle  made  such  speed  as  she  did  for  the  next  six 
blocks 

Hours  later  Elinor  Cardew  wakened  in  a  quiet  room  with 
gray  walls,  and  with  the  sickening  sweet  odor  of  ether  over 
everything.  Instead  of  Olga  a  quiet  nurse  sat  by  her  bed,  and 
standing  by  a  window,  in  low-voiced  conversation,  were  two 
men.  One  she  knew,  the  doctor.  The  other,  a  tall  young 
man  with  a  slight  limp  as  he  came  toward  her,  she  had  never 
seen  before.  A  friendly  young  man,  thin,  and  grave  of  voice, 
who  put  a  hand  over  hers  and  said: 

"You  are  not  to  worry  about  anything,  Mrs.  Doyle.  You 
understand  me,  don't  you?  Everything  is  all  right.  I  am 
going  now  to  get  your  people." 

"My  husband?" 

"Your  own  people,"  he  said.  "I  have  already  telephoned 
to  your  brother.  And  the  leg's  fixed.  Everything's  as  right 
as  rain/'" 

Elinor  closed  her  eyes.  She  felt  no  pain  and  no  curiosity. 
Only  there  was  something  she  had  to  do,  and  do  quickly. 
What  was  it?  But  she  could  not  remember,  because  she  felt 
very  sleepy  and  relaxed,  and  as  though  everything  was  indeed 
as  right  as  rain. 

It  was  evening  when  she  looked  up  again,  and  the  room 
was  dark.  The  doctor  had  gone,  and  the  grave  young  man 
was  still  in  the  room.  There  was  another  figure  there,  tall 
and  straight,  and  at  first  she  thought  it  was  Jim  Doyle. 

"Jim!"  she  said.  And  then:  "You  must  go  away,  Jim. 
I  warn  you.  I  am  going  to  tell  all  I  know." 

But  the  figure  turned,  and  it  was  Howard  Cardew,  a  tense 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 375 

and  strained  Howard  Cardew,  who  loomed  amazingly  tall  and 
angry,  but  not  with  her. 

"I'm  sorry,  Nellie  dear,"  he  said,  bending  over  her.  "If 
we'd  only  known — can  you  talk  now  ?" 

Her  mind  was  suddenly  very  clear. 

"I  must.     There  is  very  little  time." 

"I  want  to  tell  you  something  first,  Nellie.  I  think  we 
have  located  the  Russian  woman,  but  we  haven't  got  Doyle." 

Howard  was  not  very  subtle,  but  Willy  Cameron  saw  her 
face  and  understood.  It  was  strange  beyond  belief,  he  felt, 
this  loyalty  of  women  to  their  men,  even  after  love  had  gone; 
this  feeling  that,  having  once  lain  in  a  man's  arms,  they  have 
taken  a  vow  of  protection  over  that  man.  It  was  not  so  much 
that  they  were  his  as  that  he  was  theirs.  Jim  Doyle  had 
made  her  a  prisoner,  had  treated  her  brutally,  was  a  traitor 
to  her  and  to  his  country,  but — he  had  been  hers.  She  was 
glad  that  he  had  got  away. 


CHAPTER  XLVII 

IT  was  dark  when  Howard  Cardew  and  Willy  Cameron  left 
the  hospital.  Elinor's  information  had  been  detailed  and 
exact.  Under  cover  of  the  general  strike  the  radical  element 
intended  to  take  over  the  city.  On  the  evening  of  the  first  day 
of  the  strike,  armed  groups  from  the  revolutionary  party 
would  proceed  first  to  the  municipal  light  plant,  and,  having 
driven  out  any  employees  who  remained  at  their  posts,  or  such 
volunteers  as  had  replaced  them,  would  plunge  the  city  into 
darkness. 

Elinor  was  convinced  that  following  this  would  come  vari 
ous  bomb  outrages,  perhaps  a  great  number  of  them,  but  of 
this  she  had  no  detailed  information.  What  she  did  know, 
however,  was  the  dependence  that  Doyle  and  the  other  leaders 
were  placing  in  the  foreign  element  in  the  nearby  mill  towns 
and  from  one  or  two  mining  districts  in  the  county. 

Around  the  city,  in  the  mill  towns,  there  were  more 
than  forty  thousand  foreign  laborers.  Subtract  from  that 
the  loyal  aliens,  but  add  a  certain  percentage  of  the  native- 
born  element,  members  of  seditious  societies  and  followers  of 
the  red  flag,  and  the  Reds  had  a  potential  army  of  dangerous 
size. 

As  an  actual  righting  force  they  were  much  less  impressive. 
Only  a  small  percentage,  she  knew  and  told  them,  were  ade 
quately  armed.  There  were  a  few  machine  guns,  and  some 
long-range  rifles,  but  by  far  the  greater  number  had  only 
revolvers.  The  remainder  had  extemporized  weapons,  bars 
of  iron,  pieces  of  pipe,  farm  implements,  lances  of  wood 
tipped  with  iron  and  beaten  out  on  home  forges. 

They  were  a  rabble,  not  an  army,  without  organization  and 
with  few  leaders.  Their  fighting  was  certain  to  be  as  indivi 
dualistic  as  their  doctrines.  They  had  two  elements  in  their 
favor  only,  numbers  and  surprise. 

376 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN    377 

To  oppose  them,  if  the  worst  came,  there  were  perhaps 
five  thousand  armed  men,  including  the  city  and  county 
police,  the  state  constabulary,  and  the  citizens  who  had  signed 
the  cards  of  the  Vigilance  Committee.  The  local  post  of  the 
American  Legion  stood  ready  for  instant  service,  and  a  few 
national  guard  troops  still  remained  in  the  vicinity. 

"What  they  expect,"  she  said,  looking  up  from  her  pillows 
with  tragic  eyes,  "is  that  the  police  and  the  troops  will  join 
them.  You  don't  think  they  will,  do  you?" 

They  reassured  her,  and  after  a  time  she  slept  again.  When 
she  wakened,  at  midnight,  the  room  was  empty  save  for  a 
nurse  reading  under  a  night  lamp  behind  a  screen.  Elinor 
was  not  in  pain.  She  lay  there,  listening  to  the  night  sounds 
of  the  hospital,  the  watchman  shuffling  along  the  corridor  in 
slippers,  the  closing  of  a  window,  the  wail  of  a  newborn  infant 
far  away. 

There  was  a  shuffling  of  feet  in  the  street  below,  the  sound 
of  many  men,  not  marching  but  grimly  walking,  bent  on  some 
unknown  errand.  The  nurse  opened  the  window  and  looked 
out. 

"That's  queer!"  she  said.  "About  thirty  men,  and  not  say 
ing  a  word.  They  walk  like  soldiers,  but  thev're  not  in  uni 
form." 

Elinor  pondered  that,  but  it  was  not  for  some  days  that 
she  knew  that  Pink  Denslow  and  a  picked  number  of  volun 
teers  from  the  American  Legion  had  that  night,  quite  silently 
and  unemotionally,  broken  into  the  printing  office  where  Doyle 
and  Akers  had  met  Cusick,  and  had,  not  so  silently  but  still 
unemotionally,  destroyed  the  presses  and  about  a  ton  of  in 
flammatory  pamphlets. 


CHAPTER  XLVITI 

There  was  a  little  city,  and  few  men  within  it;  And  there  came 
a  great  king  against  it,  and  besieged  it,  And  built  great  bulwarks 
against  it;  Now  there  was  found  in  it  a  Poor  Wise  Man,  And  he  by 
his  wisdom  delivered  the  city.  —  Ecclesiastes  1x114,  15. 


general  strike  occurred  two  days  later,  at  mid-day. 
A  During  the  interval  a  joint  committee  representing  the 
workers,  the  employers  and  the  public  had  held  a  protracted 
sitting,  but  without  result,  and  by  one  o'clock  the  city  was  in  the 
throes  of  a  complete  tie-up.  Laundry  and  delivery  wagons4 
were  abandoned  where  they  stood.  Some  of  the  street  cars 
had  been  returned  to  the  barns,  but  others  stood  in  the  street 
where  the  crews  had  deserted  them. 

There  was  no  disorder,  however,  and  the  city  took  its  diffi 
culties  with  a  quiet  patience  and  a  certain  sense  of  humor. 
Bulletins  similar  to  the  ones  used  in  Seattle  began  to  appear. 

"Strikers,  the  world  is  the  workers'  for  the  taking,  and  the 
workers  are  the  vast  majority  in  society.  Your  interests  are 
paramount  to  those  of  a  small,  useless  band  of  parasites  who 
exploit  you  to  their  advantage.  You  have  nothing  to  lose  but 
your  chains  and  you  have  a  world  to  gain.  The  world  for 
the  workers." 

There  was  one  ray  of  light  in  the  darkness,  however.  The 
municipal  employees  had  refused  to  strike,  and  only  by  force 
would  the  city  go  dark  that  night.  It  was  a  blow  to  the  con 
spirators.  In  the  strange  psychology  of  the  mob,  darkness  was 
an  essential  to  violence,  and  by  three  o'clock  that  afternoon 
the  light  plant  and  city  water  supply  had  been  secured  against 
attack  by  effectual  policing.  The  power  plant  for  the  car  lines 
was  likewise  protected,  and  at  five  o'clock  a  line  of  street  cars, 
stalled  on  Amanda  Street,  began  to  show  signs  of  life. 

378 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 379 

The  first  car  was  boarded  by  a  half  dozen  youngish  men, 
unobtrusively  ready  for  trouble,  and  headed  by  a  tall  youth 
who  limped  slightly  and  wore  an  extremely  anxious  expression. 
He  went  forward  and  commenced  a  series  of  experiments 
with  levers  and  brake,  in  which  process  incidentally  he  liber 
ated  a  quantity  of  sand  onto  the  rails.  A  moment  later  the 
car  lurched  forward,  and  then  stopped  with  a  jerk. 

Willy  Cameron  looked  behind  him  and  grinned.  The  entire 
guard  was  piled  in  an  ignoble  mass  on  the  floor. 

By  six  o'clock  volunteer  crews  were  running  a  number  of 
cars,  and  had  been  subjected  to  nothing  \vorse  than  abuse. 
Strikers  lined  the  streets  and  watched  them,  but  the  grim 
faces  of  the  guards  kept  them  back.  They  jeered  from  the 
curbs,  but  except  for  the  flinging  of  an  occasional  stone  they 
made  no  inimical  move. 

By  eight  o'clock  it  was  clear  that  the  tie-up  would  be  only 
partial.  Volunteers  from  all  walks  of  life  were  in  line  at  the 
temporary  headquarters  of  the  Vigilance  Committee  and  were 
being  detailed,  for  police  duty,  to  bring  in  the  trains  with  the 
morning  milk,  to  move  street  cars  and  trucks.  The  water 
plant  and  the  reservoirs  were  protected.  Willy  Cameron, 
abandoning  his  car  after  the  homeward  rush  of  the  evening, 
found  a  line  before  the  Committee  Building  which  extended 
for  blocks  down  the  street. 

Troops  had  been  sent  for,  but  it  took  time  to  mobilize  and 
move  them.  It  would  be  morning  before  they  arrived.  And 
the  governor,  over  the  long  distance  wire  to  the  mayor,  was 
inclined  to  be  querulous. 

"We'll  send  them,  of  course,"  he  said.  "But  if  the  strikers 
are  keeping  quiet — I  don't  know  what  the  country's  coming 
to.  We're  holding  a  conference  here  now.  There's  rioting 
breaking  out  all  over  the  state." 

There  was  a  conference  held  in  the  Mayor's  office  that 
night:  Cameron  and  Cardew  and  one  or  two  others  of  the 
Vigilance  Committee,  two  agents  of  the  government  secret 
service,  the  captains  of  the  companies  of  state  t'roops  and 


380 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

constabulary,  the  Chief  of  Police,  the  Mayor  himself,  and 
some  representatives  of  the  conservative  element  of  organized 
labor.  Quiet  men,  these  last,  uneasy  and  anxious,  as  ignor 
ant  as  the  others  of  which  way  the  black  cat,  the  symbol  of 
sabotage  and  destruction,  would  jump.  The  majority  of  their 
men  would  stand  for  order,  they  declared,  but  there  were 
some  who  would  go  over.  They  urged,  to  offset  that  reflec 
tion  on  their  organization  that  the  proletariat  of  the  city  might 
go  over,  too. 

But,  by  midnight,  it  seemed  as  though  the  situation  was 
solving  itself.  In  the  segregated  district  there  had  been  a  small 
riot,  and  another  along  the  river  front,  disturbances  quickly 
ended  by  the  police  and  the  volunteer  deputies.  The  city  had 
not  gone  dark.  The  bombs  had  not  exploded.  Word  came  in 
that  by  back  roads  and  devious  paths  the  most  rabid  of  the 
agitators  were  leaving  town.  And  before  two  o'clock  How 
ard  Cardew  and  some  of  the  others  went  home  to  bed. 

At  three  o'clock  the  Cardew  doorbell  rang,  and  Howard, 
not  asleep,  flung  on  his  dressing  gown  and  went  out  into  the 
hall.  Lily  was  in  her  doorway,  intent  and  anxious. 

"Don't  answer  it,  father,"  she  begged.  "You  don't  know 
what  it  may  be." 

Howard  smiled,  but  went  back  and  got  his  revolver.  The 
visitor  was  Willy  Cameron. 

"I  don't  like  to  waken  you,"  he  said,  "but  word  has  come  in 
of  suspicious  movements  at  Baxter  and  Friendship,  and  one 
or  two  other  places.  It  looks  like  concerted  action  of  some 
sort." 

"What  sort  of  concerted  action  ?" 

"They  still  have  one  card  to  play.  The  foreign  element  out 
side  hasn't  been  heard  from.  It  looks  as  though  the  fellows 
who  left  town  to-night  have  been  getting  busy  up  the  river." 

"They  wouldn't  be  such  fools  as  to  come  to  the  city." 

"They've  been  made  a  lot  of  promises.  They  may  be  out 
of  hand,  you  know." 

While  Howard  was  hastily  dressing,  Willy  Cameron  waited 
below.  He  caught  a  glimpse  of  himself  in  the  big  mirror  and 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN  381 

looked  away.  His  face  was  drawn  and  haggard,  his  eyes  hol 
low  and  his  collar  a  wilted  string.  He  was  dusty  and  shabby, 
too,  and  to  Lily,  coming  down  the  staircase,  he  looked  almost 
ill. 

Lily  was  in  a  soft  negligee  garment,  her  bare  feet  thrust  into 
slippers,  but  she  was  too  anxious  to  be  self-conscious. 

"Willy/'  she  said,  "there  is  trouble  after  all?" 

"Not  in  the  city.    Things  are  not  so  quiet  up  the  river." 

She  placed  a  hand  on  his  arm. 

"Are  you  and  father  going  up  the  river  ?" 

He  explained,  after  a  momentary  hesitation.  "It  may  crys 
tallize  into  something,  or  it  may  not,"  he  finished. 

"You  think  it  will,  don't  you  ?" 

"It  will  be  nothing  more,  at  the  worst,  than  rioting." 

"But  you  may  be  hurt !" 

"I  may  have  one  chance  to  fight  for  my  country,"  he  said, 
rather  grimly.  "Don't  begrudge  me  that."  But  he  added: 
"I'll  not  be  hurt.  The  thing  will  blow  up  as  soon  as  it  starts." 

"You  don't  really  believe  that,  do  you?" 

"I  know  they'll  never  get  into  the  city." 

But  as  he  moved  away  she  called  him  back,  more  breath 
lessly  than  ever,  and  quite  white. 

"I  don't  want  you  to  go 'without  knowing Willy,  do 

you  remember  once  that  you  said  you  cared  for  me?" 

"I  remember."     He  stared  straight  ahead. 

"Are  you— all  over  that?" 

"You  know  better  than  that,  don't  you?" 

"But  I've  done  so  many  things,"  she  said,  wistfully.  "You 
ought  to  hate  me."  And  when  he  said  nothing,  for  the  simple 
reason  that  he  could  not  speak :  "I've  ruined  us  both,  haven't 
I?" 

Suddenly  he  caught  up  her  hand  and,  bending  over  it,  held 
it  to  his  lips. 

"Always,"  he  said,  huskily,  "I  love  you,  Lily.  I  shall  al 
ways  love  you." 


CHAPTER  XLIX 

HOWARD  went  back  to  the  municipal  building,  driving 
furiously  through  the  empty  streets.  The  news  was 
ominous.  Small  bodies  of  men,  avoiding  the  highways,  were 
focusing  at  different  points  in  the  open  country.  The  state 
police  had  been  fired  at  from  ambush,  and  two  of  them  had 
been  killed.  They  had  ridden  into  and  dispersed  various 
gatherings  in  the  darkness,  but  only  to  have  them  re-form  in 
other  places.  The  enemy  was  still  shadowy,  elusive;  it  was 
apparently  saving  its  ammunition.  It  did  little  shooting,  but 
reports  of  the  firing  of  farmhouses  and  of  buildings  in  small, 
unprotected  towns  began  to  come  in  rapidly. 

In  a  short  time  the  messages  began  to  be  more  significant, 
indicating  that  the  groups  were  coalescing  and  that  a  revolu 
tionary  army,  with  the  city  its  objective,  was  coming  down 
the  river,  evidently  making  for  the  bridge  at  Chester  Street. 

"They've  lighted  a  fire  they  can't  put  out,"  was  Howard's 
comment.  His  mouth  was  very  dry  and  his  face  twitching, 
for  he  saw,  behind  the  frail  barrier  of  the  Chester  Street 
bridge,  the  quiet  houses  of  the  city,  the  sleeping  children, 
He  saw  Grace  and  Lily,  and  Elinor.  He  was  among  the  first 
to  reach  the  river  front. 

All  through  the  dawn  volunteers  labored  at  the  bridge  head. 
Members  of  the  Vigilance  Committee,  policemen  and  firemen, 
doctors,  lawyers,  clerks,  shop-keepers,  they  looted  the  river 
wharves  with  willing,  unskillful  hands.  They  turned  coal 
wagons  on  their  sides,  carried  packing  cases  and  boxes,  and, 
under  the  direction  of  men  who  wore  the  Legion  button,  built 
skillfully  and  well.  Willy  Cameron  toiled  with  the  others. 
He  lifted  and  pulled  and  struggled,  and  in  the  midst  of  his 
labor  he  had  again  that  old  dream  of  the  city.  The  city  was 
a  vast  number  of  units,  and  those  units  were  homes.  Behind 
each  of  those  men  there  was,  somewhere,  in  some  quiet  neigh- 

382 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 383 

borhood,  a  home.  It  was  for  their  homes  they  were  fighting, 
for  the  right  of  children  to  play  in  peaceful  streets,  for  the 
right  to  go  back  at  night  to  the  rest  they  had  earned  by 
honest  labor,  for  the  right  of  the  hearth,  of  lamp-light  and 
sunlight,  of  love,  of  happiness. 

Then,  in  the  flare  of  a  gasoline  torch,  he  came  face  to  face 
with  Louis  Akers.  The  two  men  confronted  each  other, 
silently,  with  hostility.  Neither  moved  aside,  but  it  was  Akers 
who  spoke  first. 

"Always  busy,  Cameron,"  he  said.  "What'd  the  world  do 
without  you,  anyhow?" 

"Aren't  you  on  the  wrong  side  of  this  barricade?" 

"Smart  as  ever,"  Akers  observed,  watching  him  intently. 
"As  it  happens,  I'm  here  because  I  want  to  be,  and  because 
I  can't  get  where  I  ought  to  be." 

For  a  furious  moment  Willy  Cameron  thought  he  was  re 
ferring  to  his  wife,  but  there  was  something  strange  in 
Akers'  tone. 

"I  could  be  useful  to  you  fellows,"  he  was  saying,  "but  it 
seems  you  don't  want  help.  I've  been  trying  to  see  the  Mayor 
all  night." 

"What  do  you  want  to  see  him  about?" 

"I'll  tell  him  that." 

Willy  Cameron  hesitated. 

"I  think  it's  a  trick,  Akers." 

"All  right.    Then  go  to  the  devil !" 

He  turned  away  sullenly,  leaving  Willy  Cameron  still  un 
decided.  It  would  be  like  the  man  as  he  knew  him,  this 
turning  informer  when  he  saw  the  strength  of  the  defense, 
and  Cameron  had  a  flash  of  intuition,  too,  that  Akers  might 
see,  in  this  new  role,  some  possible  chance  to  win  back  with 
Lily  Cardew.  He  saw  how  the  man's  cheap  soul  might  drama 
tize  itself. 

"Akers !"  he  called. 

Akers  stopped,  but  he  did  not  turn. 

"I've  got  a  car  here.  If  you  mean  what  you  say,  and  it's 
straight,  I'll  take  you." 


384 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

"Where's  the  car?" 

On  their  way  to  it,  threading  in  and  out  among  the  toiling 
crowd,  Willy  Cameron  had  a  chance  to  observe  the  change  in 
the  other  man,  his  drooping  shoulders  and  the  almost  lassi 
tude  of  his  walk.  He  went  ahead,  charging  the  mass  and 
going  through  it  by  sheer  bulk  and  weight,  his  hands  in  his 
coat  pockets,  his  soft  hat  pulled  low  over  his  face.  Neither 
of  them  noticed  that  one  of  the  former  clerks  of  the  Myers 
Housecleaning  Company  followed  close  behind,  or  that,  hold 
ing  to  a  tire,  he  rode  on  the  rear  of  the  Cardew  automobile 
as  it  made  its  way  into  the  center  of  the  city. 

In  the  car  Akers  spoke  only  once. 

"Where  is  Howard  Cardew?"  he  asked. 

"With  the  Mayor,  probably.    I  left  him  there." 

It  seemed  to  him  that  Akers  found  the  answer  satisfac 
tory.  He  sat  back  in  the  deep  seat,  and  lighted  a  cigarette. 

The  Municipal  Building  was  under  guard.  Willy  Cameron 
went  up  the  steps  and  spoke  to  the  sentry  there.  It  was 
while  his  back  was  turned  that  the  sharp  crack  of  a  revolver 
rang  out,  and  he  whirled,  in  time  to  see  Louis  Akers  fall 
forward  on  his  face  and  lie  still. 

The  shadowy  groups  through  the  countryside  had  com 
menced  to  coalesce.  Groups  of  twenty  became  a  rabble  of 
five  hundred.  The  five  hundred  grew,  and  joined  other  five 
hundreds.  From  Baxter  alone  over  two  thousand  rioters, 
mostly  foreigners,  started  out,  and  by  daylight  the  main  body 
of  the  enemy  reached  the  outskirts  of  the  city,  a  long,  irregular 
line  of  laughing,  jostling,  shouting  men,  constantly  renewed  at 
the  rear  until  the  procession  covered  miles  of  roadway.  They 
were  of  all  races  and  all  types ;  individually  they  were,  many  of 
them,  like  boys  playing  truant  from  school,  not  quite  certain  of 
themselves,  smiling  and  yet  uneasy,  not  entirely  wicked  in 
intent.  But  they  were  shepherded  by  men  with  cunning  eyes, 
men  who  knew  well  that  a  mob  is  greater  than  the  sum  of 
its  parts,  more  wicked  than  the  individuals  who  compose  it, 
more  cruel,  more  courageous. 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 385 

As  it  marched  it  laughed.  It  was  like  a  lion  at  play,  ready 
to  leap  at  the  first  scratch  that  brought  blood. 

Where  the  street  car  line  met  the  Friendship  Road  the  ad 
vance  was  met  by  the  Chief  of  Police,  on  horseback  and  fol 
lowed  by  a  guard  of  mounted  men,  and  ordered  back.  The 
van  hesitated,  but  it  was  urged  ahead,  pushed  on  by  the 
irresistible  force  behind  it,  and  it  came  on  no  longer  singing, 
but  slowly,  inevitably,  sullenly  protesting  and  muttering.  Its 
good  nature  was  gone. 

As  the  Chief  turned  his  horse  was  shot  under  him.  He  took 
another  horse  from  one  of  his  guard,  and  they  retired,  moving 
slowly  and  with  drawn  revolvers.  There  was  no  further 
shooting  at  that  time,  nothing  but  the  irresistible  advance.  The 
police  could  no  more  have  held  the  armed  rabble  than  they 
could  have  held  the  invading  hordes  in  Belgium.  At  the  end 
of  the  street  the  Chief  stopped  and  looked  back.  They  had 
passed  over  his  dead  horse  as  though  it  were  not  there. 

In  the  mill  district,  which  they  had  now  reached,  they 
received  reinforcements,  justifying  the  judgment  of  the  con 
ference  that  to  have  erected  their  barricades  there  would  have 
been  to  expose  the  city's  defenders  to  attack  from  the  rear. 
And  the  mill  district  suffered  comparatively  little.  It  was 
the  business  portion  of  the  city  toward  which  they  turned 
their  covetous  eyes,  the  great  stores,  the  hotels  and  restaurants, 
the  homes  of  the  wealthy. 

Pleased  by  the  lack  of  opposition  the  mob  grew  more  cheer 
ful.  The  lion  played.  They  pressed  forward,  wanton  and 
jeering,  firing  now  and  then  at  random,  breaking  windows  as 
they  passed,  looting  small  shops  which  they  stripped  like 
locusts.  Their  pockets  bulging,  and  the  taste  of  pillage  fore 
casting  what  was  to  come,  they  moved  onward  more  rapidly, 
shooting  at  upper  windows  or  into  the  air,  laughing,  yelling, 
cursing,  talking.  From  the  barricades,  long  before  the  miles- 
long  column  came  into  view,  could  be  heard  the  ominous  far- 
off  muttering  of  the  mob. 

It  was  when  they  found  the  bridge  barricaded  on  the  far 
side,  however,  that  the  lion  bared  its  teeth  and  snarled.  Tern- 


386 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

porarily  checked  by  the  play  of  machine  guns  which  swept  the 
bridge  and  kept  it  clear  for  a  time,  they  commenced  wild, 
wasteful  firing,  from  the  bridge-head  and  from  along  the 
Cardew  wharves.  Their  leaders  were  prepared,  and  sent 
snipers  into  the  bridge  towers,  but  the  machine  guns  con 
tinued  to  fire. 

That  the  struggle  would  be  on  the  bridge  Doyle  and  his 
Council  had  anticipated  from  the  reports  of  the  night  before. 
They  were  prepared  to  take  a  heavy  loss  on  the  bridges,  but 
they  had  not  prepared  for  the  thing  that  defeated  them ;  that 
as  the  mob  is  braver  than  the  individual,  so  also  it  is  more 
cowardly. 

Pushed  forward  from  the  rear  and  unable  to  retreat  through 
the  dense  mass  behind  that  was  every  moment  growing  denser, 
a  few  hundreds  found  themselves  facing  the  steady  machine- 
gun  fire  from  behind  the  barricades,  and  unable  either  to  ad 
vance  or  to  retire.  Thus  trapped,  they  turned  on  their  own 
forces  behind  them,  and  tried  to  fight  their  way  to  safety,  but 
the  inexorable  pressure  kept  on,  and  the  defenders,  watching 
and  powerless,  saw  men  fling  themselves  from  the  bridges  and 
disappear  in  the  water  below,  rather  than  advance  into  the 
machine-gun  zone.  The  guns  were  not  firing  into  the  rioters, 
but  before  them,  to  hold  them  back,  and  into  that  leaden 
stream  there  were  no  brave  spirits  to  hurl  themselves. 

The  trapped  men  turned  on  their  own  and  battled  for  escape. 
With  the  same  violence  which  had  been  directed  toward  the 
city  they  now  fought  each  other,  and  the  bridge  slowly  cleared. 
But  the  mob  did  not  disperse. 

It  spread  out  on  the  bank  across,  a  howling,  frustrated, 
futile  mass,  disorganized  and  demoralized,  which  fired  its 
useless  guns  across  the  river,  which  seethed  and  tossed  and 
struggled,  and  spent  itself  in  its  own  wild  fury.  And  all  the 
time  cool-eyed  men,  on  the  wharves  across,  watched  and 
waited  for  the  time  to  attack. 

"They're  sick  at  their  stomachs  now,"  said  an  old  army 
sergeant,  watching,  to  Willy  Cameron.  "The  dirty  devils! 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN  387 

They'll  be  starting  their  filthy  work  over  there  soon,  and  that's 
the  zero  hour." 

Willy  Cameron  nodded.  He  had  seen  one  young  Russian 
boy  with  a  child-like  face  venture  forward  alone  into  the 
fire  zone  and  drop.  He  still  lay  there,  on  the  bridge.  And 
all  of  Willy  Cameron  was  in  revolt.  What  had  he  been  told, 
that  boy,  that  had  made  him  ready  to  pour  out  his  young  life 
like  wine?  There  wrere  others  like  him  in  that  milling  multi 
tude  on  the  river  bank  across,  young  men  who  had  come  to 
America  with  a  dream  in  their  hearts,  and  America  had  done 
this  to  them,  Or  had  she?  She  had  taken  them  in,  but  they 
were  not  her  own,  and  now,  since  she  would  not  take  them, 
they  would  take  her.  Was  that  it  ?  Was  it  that  America  had 
made  them  her  servants,  but  not  her  children?  He  did  not 
know. 

Robbed  of  the  city  proper,  the  mob  turned  on  the  mill  dis 
trict  it  had  invaded.  Its  dream  of  lust  and  greed  was  over, 
but  it  could  still  destroy. 

Like  a  battle  charge,  as  indeed  it  was,  the  mounted  city 
and  state  police  crossed  the  bridge.  It  was  followed  by  the 
state  troops  on  foot,  by  city  policemen  in  orderly  files,  and  then 
by  the  armed  citizens.  The  bridge  vibrated  to  the  step  of 
marching  men,  going  out  to  fight  for  their  homes.  The  real 
battle  was  fought  there,  around  the  Cardew  mills,  a  battle 
where  the  loyalists  were  greatly  outnumbered,  and  where  the 
rioters  fought,  according  to  their  teaching,  with  every  trick 
they  could  devise.  Posted  in  upper  windows  they  fired  down 
from  comparative  safety;  ambulances  crossed  and  re-crossed 
the  bridges.  The  streets  were  filled  with  rioting  men,  striking 
out  murderously  with  bars  and  spikes.  Fires  flamed  up  and 
burned  themselves  out.  In  one  place,  eight  blocks  of  mill- 
workers'  houses,  with  their  furnishings,  went  in  a  quarter 
of  an  hour. 

Willy  Cameron  was  fighting  like  a  demon.  Long  ago  his 
reserve  of  ammunition  had  given  out.  and  he  was  fighting 
with  the  butt  end  of  his  revolver.  Around  him  had  rallied 


388  A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

some  of  the  men  he  knew  best,  Pink  and  Mr.  Hendricks, 
Doctor  Smalley,  Dan  and  Joe  Wilkinson,  and  they  stayed 
together  as,  street  by  street,  the  revolutionists  were  driven 
back.  There  were  dead  and  wounded  everywhere,  injured 
men  who  had  crawled  into  the  shelter  of  doorways  and  sat  or 
lay  there,  nursing  their  wounds. 

Suddenly,  to  his  amazement,  Willy  saw  old  Anthony  Car- 
dew.  He  had  somehow  achieved  an  upper  window  of  the 
mill  office  building,  and  he  was  showing  himself  fearlessly,  a 
rifle  in  his  hands ;  in  his  face  was  a  great  anger,  but  there 
was  more  than  that.  Willy  Cameron,  thinking  it  over  later, 
decided  that  it  was  perplexity.  He  could  not  understand. 

He  never  did  understand.  For  other  eyes  also  had  seen  old 
Anthony  Cardew.  Willy  Cameron,  breasting  the  mob  and 
fighting  madly  toward  the  door  of  the  building,  with  Pink 
behind  him,  heard  a  cheer  and  an  angry  roar,  and,  looking  up, 
saw  that  the  old  man  had  disappeared.  They  found  him 
there  later  on,  the  rifle  beside  him,  his  small  and  valiant  figure 
looking,  with  eyes  no  longer  defiant,  toward  the  Heaven  which 
puts,  for  its  own  strange  purpose,  both  evil  and  good  into  the 
same  heart. 

By  eleven  o'clock  the  revolution  was  over.  Sodden  groups 
of  men,  thoroughly  cowed  and  frightened,  were  on  their  way 
by  back  roads  to  the  places  they  had  left  a  few  hours  before. 
They  had  no  longer  dreams  of  empire.  Behind  them  they 
could  see,  on  the  horizon,  the  city  itself,  the  smoke  from  its 
chimneys,  the  spires  of  its  churches.  Both,  homes  and 
churches,  they  had  meant  to  destroy,  but  behind  both  there 
was  the  indestructible.  They  had  failed. 

They  turned,  looked  back,  and  went  on. 

On  the  crest  of  a  hill-top  overlooking  the  city  a  man  was 
standing,  looking  down  to  where  the  softened  towers  of  the 
great  steel  bridges  rose  above  the  river  mist  like  fairy  towers. 
Below  him  lay  the  city,  powerful,  significant,  important. 

The  man  saw  the  city  only  as  a  vast  crucible,  into  which  he 
had  flung  his  all,  and  out  of  which  had  come  only  defeat  and 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 389 

failure.  But  the  city  was  not  a  crucible.  The  melting  pot  of 
a  nation  is  not  a  thing  of  cities,  but  of  the  human  soul. 

The  city  was  not  a  melting  pot.     It  was  a  sanctuary. 

The  man  stood  silent  and  morose,  his  chin  dropped  on  his 
chest,  and  stared  down. 

Beside  and  somewhat  behind  him  stood  a  woman,  a  somber, 
passionate  figure,  waiting  passively.  His  eyes  traveled  from 
the  city  to  her,  and  rested  on  her,  contemptuous,  thwarted, 
cynical. 

"You  fool,"  he  said,  "I  hate  you,  and  you  know  it." 

But  she  only  smiled  faintly.  ''We'd  better  get  away  now, 
Jim,"  she  said. 

He  got  into  the  car. 


CHAPTER  L 

LATE  that  afternoon  Joe  Wilkinson  and  Dan  came  slowly 
up  the  street,  toward  the  Boyd  house.  The  light  of  bat 
tle  was  still  in  Dan's  eyes,  his  clothes  were  torn  and  his  collar 
missing,  and  he  walked  with  the  fine  swagger  of  the  con 
queror. 

"Y'ask  me,"  he  said,  "and  I'll  tell  the  world  this  thing's  done 
for.  It  was  just  as  well  to  let  them  give  it  a  try,  and  find  out 
it  won't  work." 

Joe  said  nothing.  He  was  white  and  very  tired,  and  a  little 
sick. 

"If  you  don't  mind  I'll  go  in  your  place  and  wash  up,"  he 
remarked,  as  they  neared  the  house.  "I'll  scare  the  kids  to 
death  if  they  see  me  like  this." 

Edith  was  in  the  parlor.  She  had  sat  there  almost  all  day, 
in  an  agony  of  fear.  At  four  o'clock  the  smallest  Wilkinson 
had  hammered  at  the  front  door,  and  on  being  admitted  had 
made  a  shameless  demand. 

"Bed  and  thugar,"  she  had  said,  looking  up  with  an  ingrati 
ating  smile. 

"You  little  beggar!" 

"Bed  and  thugar." 

Edith  had  got  the  bread  and  sugar,  and,  having  lured  the 
baby  into  the  parlor,  had  held  her  while  she  ate,  receiving  now 
and  then  an  exceedingly  sticky  kiss  in  payment.  After  a  little 
the  child's  head  began  to  droop,  and  Edith  drew  the  small  head 
down  onto  her  breast.  She  sat  there,  rocking  gently,  while  the 
chair  slowly  traveled,  according  to  its  wont,  about  the  room. 

The  child  brought  her  comfort.  She  began  to  understand 
those  grave  rocking  figures  in  the  hospital  ward,  women  who 
sat,  with  eyes  that  seemed  to  look  into  distant  places,  with  a 
child's  head  on  their  breasts. 

After  all,  that  was  life  for  a  woman.  Love  was  only  a 

390 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 


part  of  the  scheme  of  life,  a  means  to  an  end.  And  that  end 
was  the  child. 

For  the  first  time  she  wished  that  her  child  had  lived. 

She  felt  no  bitterness  now,  and  no  anger.  He  was  dead. 
It  was  hard  to  think  of  him  as  dead,  who  had  been  so  vitally 
alive.  She  was  sorry  he  had  had  to  die,  but  death  was  like 
love  and  children,  it  was  a  part  of  some  general  scheme  of 
things.  Suppose  this  had  been  his  child  she  was  holding? 
Would  she  so  easily  have  forgiven  him  ?  She  did  not  know. 

Then  she  thought  of  Willy  Cameron.  The  bitterness  had 
strangely  gone  out  of  that,  too.  Perhaps,  vaguely,  she  began 
to  realize  that  only  young  love  gives  itself  passionately  and 
desperately,  when  there  is  no  hope  of  a  return,  and  that  the 
agonies  of  youth,  although  terrible  enough,  pass  with  youth 
itself. 

She  felt  very  old. 

Joe  found  her  there,  the  chair  displaying  its  usual  tendency 
to  climb  the  chimney  flue,  and  stood  in  the  doorway,  looking 
at  her  with  haunted,  hungry  eyes.  There  was  a  sort  of  despair 
in  Joe  those  days,  and  now  he  was  tired  and  shaken  from  the 
battle. 

"I'll  take  her  home  in  a  minr^e,"  he  said,  still  with  the 
strange  eyes.  "I  -  " 

He  came  into  the  room,  and  suddenly  he  was  kneeling  be 
side  the  chair,  his  head  buried  against  the  baby's  warm,  round 
body.  His  bent  shoulders  shook,  and  Edith,  still  with  the  ma 
ternal  impulse  strong  within  her,  put  her  hand  on  his  bowed 
head. 

"Don't,  Joe  !" 

He  looked  up. 

"I  loved  you  so,  Edith!" 

"Don't  you  love  me  now?" 

"God  knows  I  do.  I  can't  get  over  it.  I  can't.  I've  tried, 
Edith." 

He  sat  back  on  the  floor  and  looked  at  her. 

"I  can't,"  he  repeated.    "And  when  I  saw  you  like  that  just 


392 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

now,  with  the  kid  in  your  arms — I  used  to  think  that  maybe 
you  and  I— 

"I  know,  Joe.    No  decent  man  would  want  me  now." 

She  was  still  strangely  composed,  peaceful,  almost  detached. 

''That!"  he  said,  astonished.  "I  don't  mean  that,  Edith. 
I've  had  my  fight  about  that,  and  got  it  over.  That's  done 

with.  I  mean "  he  got  up  and  straightened  himself.  "You 

don't  care  about  me." 

"But  I  do  care  for  you.  Perhaps  not  quite  the  way  you 
care,  Joe,  but  I've  been  through  such  a  lot.  I  can't  seem  to 
feel  anything  terribly.  I  just  want  peace." 

"I  could  give  you  that,"  he  said  eagerly. 

Edith  smiled.  Peace,  in  that  noisy  house  next  door,  with 
children  and  kittens  and  puppies  everywhere !  And  yet  it 
would  be  peace,  after  all,  a  peace  of  the  soul,  the  peace  of  a 
good  man's  love.  After  a  time,  too,  there  might  come  an 
other  peace,  the  peace  of  those  tired  women  in  the  ward,  rock 
ing. 

"If  you  want  me,  I'll  marry  you,"  she  said,  very  simply. 
"I'll  be  a  good  wife,  Joe.  And  I  want  children.  I  want  the 
right  to  have  them." 

He  never  noticed  that  the  kiss  she  gave  him,  over  the  sleep 
ing  baby,  was  slightly  tinged  with  granulated  sugar. 


CHAPTER    LI 

OLD  Anthony's  body  had  been  brought  home,  and  lay  in 
state  in  his  great  bed.     There  had  been  a  bad  hour; 
death  seems  so  strangely  to  erase   faults  and  leave  virtues. 
Something  strong  and  vital  had   gone   from  the  house,   and 
the  servants  moved  about  with  cautious,  noiseless  steps. 

In  Grace's  boudoir,  Howard  was  sitting,  his  arms  around 
his  wife,  telling  her  the  story  of  the  day.  At  dawn  he  had 
notified  her  by  telephone  of  Akers'  murder. 

"Shall  I  tell  Lily?"  she  had  asked,  trembling. 

"Do  you  want  to  wait  until  I  get  back  ?" 

"I  don't  know  how  she  will  take  it,  Howard.  I  wish  you 
could  be  here,  anyhow." 

But  then  had  come  the  battle  and  his  father's  death,  and  in 
the  end  it  was  Willy  Cameron  who  told  her.  He  had  brought 
back  all  that  was  mortal  of  Anthony  Cardew,  and,  having  seen 
the  melancholy  procession  up  the  stairs,  had  stood  in  the  hall, 
hating  to  intrude  but  hoping  to  be  useful.  Howard  found  him 
there,  a  strange,  disheveled  figure,  bearing  the  scars  of  battle, 
and  held  out  his  hand. 

"It's  hard  to  thank  you,  Cameron,"  he  said ;  "you  seem  to  be 

always  about  when  we  need  help.    And "  he  paused.   "We 

seem  to  have  needed  it  considerably  lately." 

Willy  Cameron  flushed. 

"I  feel  rather  like  a  meddler,  sir." 

"Better  go  up  and  wash,"  Howard  said.  "I'll  go  up  with 
you." 

It  happened,  therefore,  that  it  was  in  Howard  Cardew's 
opulent  dressing-room  that  Howard  first  spoke  to  Vrilly 
Cameron  of  Akers'  death,  pacing  the  floor  as  he  did  so. 

"I  haven't  told  her,  Cameron."  He  was  anxious  and  puz 
zled.  "She'll  have  to  be  told  soon,  of  course.  I  don't  know 
anything  about  women.  I  don't  know  how  she'll  take  it." 

393 


394  A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

"She  has  a  great  deal  of  courage.  It  will  be  a  shock,  but 

not  a  grief.  But  I  have  been  thinking "  Willy  Cameron 

hesitated.  "She  must  not  feel  any  remorse,"  he  went  on.  "She 
must  not  feel  that  she  contributed  to  it  in  any  way.  If  you 
can  make  that  clear  to  her " 

"Are  you  sure  she  did  not  ?" 

"It  isn't  facts  that  matter  now.  We  can't  help  those.  And 
no  one  can  tell  what  actually  led  to  his  change  of  heart.  It  is 
what  she  is  to  think  the  rest  of  her  life." 

Howard  nodded. 

"I  wish  you  would  tell  her,"  he  said.  "I'm  a  blundering 
fool  when  it  comes  to  her.  I  suppose  I  care  too  much." 

He  caught  rather  an  odd  look  in  Willy  Cameron's  face  at 
that,  and  pondered  over  it  later. 

"I  will  tell  her,  if  you  wish." 

And  Howard  drew  a  deep  breath  of  relief.  It  was  shortly 
after  that  he  broached  another  matter,  rather  diffidently. 

"I  don't  know  whether  you  realize  it  or  not,  Cameron,"  he 
said,  "but  this  thing  to-day  might  have  been  a  different  story 
if  it  had  not  been  for  you.  And — don't  think  I'm  putting  this 
on  a  reward  basis.  It's  nothing  of  the  sort — but  I  would  like 
to  feel  that  you  were  working  with  me.  I'd  hate  like  thunder 
to  have  you  working  against  me,"  he  added. 

"I  am  only  trained  for  one  thing." 

"We  use  chemists  in  the  mills." 

But  the  discussion  ended  there.  Both  men  knew  that  it 
would  be  taken  up  later,  at  some  more  opportune  time,  and  in 
the  meantime  both  had  one  thought,  Lily. 

So  it  happened  that  Lily  heard  the  news  of  Louis  Akers' 
death  from  Willy  Cameron.  She  stood,  straight  and  erect, 
and  heard  him  through,  watching  him  with  eyes  sunken  by  her 
nignt's  vigil  and  by  the  strain  of  the  day.  But  it  seemed  to 
her  that  he  was  speaking  of  some  one  she  had  known  long 
ago,  in  some  infinitely  remote  past. 

"I  am  sorry,"  she  said,  when  he  finished.  "I  didn't  want  him 
to  die.  You  know  that,  don't  you?  I  never  wished  him • 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN  395 

Willy,  I  say  I  am  sorry,  but  I  don't  really  feel  anything.    It's 
dreadful." 

Before  he  could  catch  her  she  had  fallen  to  the  floor,  faint 
ing  for  the  first  time  in  her  healthy  young  life. 

An  hour  later  Mademoiselle  went  down  to  the  library  door. 
She  found  Willy  Cameron  pacing  the  floor,  a  pipe  clenched  in 
his  teeth,  and  a  look  of  wild  despair  in  his  eyes. 

Mademoiselle  took  a  long  breath.     She  had  changed  her  \ 
view-point  somewhat  since  the  spring.     After  all,  what  mat-  ] 
tered  was  happiness.    Wealth  and  worldly  ambition  were  well 
enough,  but  they  brought  one,  in  the  end,  to  the  thing  which 
waited  for  all  in  some  quiet  upstairs  room,  with  the  shades 
drawn  and  the  heavy  odors  of  hot-house  flowers  over  every 
thing. 

"She  is  all  right,  quite,  Mr.  Cameron,"  she  said.  "It  was 
but  a  crisis  of  the  nerves,  and  to  be  expected.  And  now  she 
demands  to  see  you." 

Grayson,  standing  in  the  hall,  had  a  swift  vision  of  a  tall 
figure,  which  issued  with  extreme  rapidity  from  the  library 
door,  and  went  up  the  stairs,  much  like  a  horse  taking  a  series 
of  hurdles.  But  the  figure  lost  momentum  suddenly  at  the 
top,  hesitated,  and  apparently  moved  forward  on  tiptoe.  Gray- 
son  went  into  the  library  and  sniffed  at  the  unmistakable  odor 
of  a  pipe.  Then,  having  opened  a  window,  he  went  and  stood 
before  a  great  portrait  of  old  Anthony  Cardew.  Tears  stood 
in  the  old  man's  eyes,  but  there  was  a  faint  smile  on  his  lips. 

He  saw  the  endless  procession  of  life.  First,  love.  Then, 
out  of  love,  life.  Then  death.  Grayson  was  old,  but  he  had 
lived  to  see  young  love  in  the  Cardew  house.  Out  of  love,  life. 
He  addressed  a  little  speech  to  the  picture. 

"Wherever  you  are,  sir,"  he  said,  "you  needn't  worry  any 
more.  The  line  will  carry  on,  sir.  The  line  will  carry  on." 

Upstairs  in  the  little  boudoir  Willy  Cameron  knelt  beside  the 
couch,  and  gathered  Lily  close  in  his  arms. 


CHAPTER  LII 

THANKSGIVING  of  the  year  of  our  Lord  1919  saw 
many  changes.  It  saw,  slowly  emerging  from  the  chaos 
of  war,  new  nations,  like  children,  taking  their  first  feeble 
steps.  It  saw  a  socialism  which,  born  at  full  term  might  have 
thrived,  prematurely  and  forcibly  delivered,  and  making  a 
valiant  but  losing  fight  for  life.  It  saw  that  war  is  never  good, 
but  always  evil ;  that  war  takes  everything  and  gives  nothing, 
save  that  sometimes  a  man  may  lose  the  whole  world  and  gain 
his  own  soul. 

It  saw  old  Anthony  Cardew  gone  to  his  fathers,  into  the 
vast  democracy  of  heaven,  and  Louis  Akers  passed  through 
the  Traitors'  Gate  of  eternity  to  be  judged  and  perhaps  re 
prieved.  For  a  man  is  many  men,  good  and  bad,  and  the 
Judge  of  the  Tower  of  Heaven  is  a  just  Judge. 

It  saw  Jim  Doyle  a  fugitive,  Woslosky  dead,  and  the  Rus 
sian,  Ross,  bland,  cunning  and  eternally  plotting,  in  New  Eng 
land  under  another  name.  And  Mr.  Hendricks  ordering  a  new 
suit  for  the  day  of  taking  office.  And  Doctor  Smalley  tying  a 
bunch  of  chrysanthemums  on  Annabelle,  against  a  football 
game,  and  taking  a  pretty  nurse  to  see  it. 

It  saw  Ellen  roasting  a  turkey,  and  a  strange  young  man  in 
the  Eai?le  Pharmacy,  a  young  man  who  did  not  smoke  a  pipe, 
and  allowed  no  visitors  in  the  back  room.  And  it  saw  Willy 
Cameron  in  the  laboratory  of  the  reopened  Cardew  Mills, 
dealing  in  tons  instead  of  grains  and  drams,  and  learning  to 
touch  any  piece  of  metal  in  the  mill  with  a  moistened  fore 
finger  before  he  sat  down  upon  it. 

•  •  •  •  • 

But  it  saw  more  than  that. 

On  the  evening  of  Thanksgiving  Day  there  was  an  air  of 
repressed  excitement  about  the  Cardew  house.  Mademoiselle, 
in  a  new  silk  dress,  ran  about  the  lower  floor,  followed  by  an 

396 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN 397 

agitated  Grayson  with  a  cloth,  for  Mademoiselle  was  shifting 
ceaselessly  and  with  trembling  hands  vases  of  flowers,  and 
spilling  water  at  each  shift.  At  six  o'clock  had  arrived  a  large 
square  white  box,  which  the  footman  had  carried  to  the  rear 
and  there  exhibited,  allowing  a  palpitating  cook,  scullery  maid 
and  divers  other  excitable  and  emotional  women  to  peep 
within. 

After  which  he  tied  it  up  again  and  carried  it  upstairs. 

At  seven  o'clock  Elinor  Cardew,  lovely  in  black  satin,  was 
carried  down  the  stairs  and  placed  in  a  position  which  com 
manded  both  the  hall  and  the  drawing-room.  For  some 
strange  reason  it  was  essential  that  she  should  see  both. 

At  seven-thirty  came  in  a  rush: 

(a) — Mr.  Alston  Denslow,  in  evening  clothes  and  gardenia, 
and  feeling  in  his  right  waist-coat  pocket  nervously  every  few 
minutes. 

(b) — An  excited  woman  of  middle  age,  in  a  black  silk  dress 
still  faintly  bearing  the  creases  of  five  days  in  a  trunk,  and  ac 
companied  by  a  mongrel  dog,  both  being  taken  upstairs  by 
Grayson,  Mademoisel.~,  Pink,  and  Howard  Cardew.  ("He 
said  Jinx  was  to  come,"  she  explained  breathlessly  to  her 
bodyguard.  "I  never  knew  such  a  boy!") 

(c) — Mr.  Davis,  in  a  frock  coat  and  white  lawn  tie,  and 
taken  upstairs  by  Grayson,  who  mistook  him  for  the  bishop. 

(d) — Aunt  Caroline,  in  her  diamond  dog  collar  and  purple 
velvet,  and  determined  to  make  the  best  of  things. 

(e) — The  real  bishop  this  time,  and  his  assistant,  followed 
by  a  valet  with  a  suitcase,  containing  the  proper  habiliments 
for  a  prince  of  the  church  while  functioning.  (A  military 
term,  since  the  Bishop  had  been  in  the  army.) 

(f) — A  few  unimportant  important  people,  very  curious, 
and  t:<«.a  women  uncertain  about  the  proper  garb  for  a  festive 
occasion  in  a  house  of  mourning. 

(o) — Set  of  silver  table  vases,  belated. 

(h) — Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hendricks,  Mayor  and  Mayoress-elect. 
Extremely  dignified. 

(i) — An  overful  taxicab,  containing  inside  it  Ellen,  Edith, 

I 

I 


398 A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

Dan  and  Joe.  The  overflow,  consisting  of  a  tall  young  man, 
displaying  repressed  excitement  and  new  evening  clothes,  with 
gardenia,  sat  on  the  seat  outside  beside  the  chauffeur  and  re 
peated  to  himself  a  sort  of  chant  accompanied  by  furious 
searchings  of  his  pockets.  "Money.  Checkbook.  Tickets. 
Trunk  checks,"  was  the  burden  of  his  song. 

(j) — Doctor  Smalley  and  Annabelle.  He  left  Annabelle 
outside. 

The  city  moved  on  about  its  business.  In  thousands  of 
homes  the  lights  shone  down  on  little  family  groups,  infinitely 
tender  little  groups.  The  workers  of  the  city  were  there,  the 
doors  shut,  the  fires  burning.  To  each  man  the  thing  he  had 
earned,  not  the  thing  that  he  took.  To  all  men  the  right  to 
labor,  to  love,  and  to  rest.  To  children,  the  right  to  play.  To 
women,  the  hearth,  and  the  peace  of  the  hearth.  To  lovers, 
love,  and  marriage,  and  home. 

The  city  moved  on  about  its  business,  and  its  business  was 
homes. 

At  the  great  organ  behind  the  staircase  the  organist  sat.  In 
stiff  rows  near  him  were  the  Cardew  servants,  marshaled  by 
Grayson  and  in  their  best. 

Grayson  stood,  very  rigid,  and  waited.  And  as  he  waited 
he  kept  his  eyes  on  the  portrait  of  old  Anthony,  in  the  draw 
ing-room  beyond.  There  was  a  fixed,  rapt  look  in  Grayson's 
eyes,  and  there  was  reassurance.  It  was  as  though  he  would 
say  to  the  portrait:  "It  has  all  come  out  very  well,  you  see, 
sir.  It  always  works  out  somehow.  We  worry  and  fret,  we 
old  ones,  but  the  young  come  along,  and  somehow  or  other 
they  manage,  sir." 

What  he  actually  said  was  to  tell  a  house  maid  to  stop  sniv 
eling. 

Over  the  house  was  the  strange  hush  of  waiting.  It  had 
waited  before  this,  for  birth  and  for  death,  but  never  be 
fore— 

The  Bishop  was  waiting  also,  and  he  too  had  his  eyes  fixed 


A  POOR  WISE  MAN  399 

n  old  Anthony's  portrait,  a  straight,  level-eyed  gaze,  as  of 
nan  to  man,  as  of  prince  of  the  church  to  prince  of  industry, 
"he  Bishop's  eyes  said:  "All  shall  be  done  properly  and  in 
rder,  and  as  befits  the  Cardews,  Anthony." 

The  Bishop  was  as  successful  in  his  line  as  Anthony  Cardew 
ad  been  in  his.  He  cleared  his  throat. 

The  organist  sat  at  the  great  organ  behind  the  staircase, 
'ailing1.  He  was  playing  very  softly,  with  his  eyes  turned  up. 
[e  had  played  the  same  music  many  times  before,  and  always 
e  felt  very  solemn,  as  one  who  makes  history.  He  sighed, 
ometimes  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  only  an  accompani- 
lent  to  life,  to  which  others  sang  and  prayed,  were  christened, 
Dniirmed  and  married.  But  what  was  the  song  without  the 
msic?  He  wished  the  scullery  maid  would  stop  crying. 

Grayson  touched  him  on  the  arm. 

"All  ready,  sir,"  he  said. 

Willy  Cameron  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase,  looking  up. 


THE  END 


LD2lA-40m-3,'72 
(Q1173SlO)476-A-32 


YB  69130 

iwuo£  -  JLflSunOtSEr- 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRAR^ 


